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BY MRS. OLIPHANT 




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Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri-weekly. By subscription $50 per annum. 

|y righted la85 by George Munro—Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates— Nov. 3, 18 


•1J T0 27 VANDEW/TEf^ ST 





New York Fireside Companion. 


Issenllalljf a Pajer for tlo Hoioe Circle. 


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THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
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cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


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liiM IscelleJt Reasons wli! Everj laij slonli wear 



2cl. INVALIDS can wear them with Ease and Comfort, as they jield to 
every movement of the bod 3 ^ 

3d. They do not compress the most vital parts of the wearer. 

4th They will fit a greater variety of forms than any other make. 

5th. Owing to their peculiar construction they will LAST TWICE AS 
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6th. They have had the unqualified endorsement of every physician who 
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them, the common remark being, 

“We will ne^'er wear any other make.” 

8th. They are the only Corset that a manufacturer has ever dared to 
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money refunded, after three weeks’ wear, even if so soiled as to be unsaleable. 



The wonderful popularity of Ball’s Corsets has induced rival manufacturers 
to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satisfaction, 
insist on purchasing one marked, 

Patented Feb. 22, 1881. 

And see that the name BALL is on the box ; also Cvnarantee 
of tlie Chicago Corset Co. 

AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

ror Sale l>y all l^eacliu;*' a>ry Ooocls Healers in tUe 
United. States, Canada and Un gland. 



MES. OLIPHANT’S AVOEKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION) : 

NO. PRICE.. 

45 A Little Pilgrim . 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance . . . 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 

including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John • 20 

370 Lucy Crofton . . . . . . . .10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story of the Scottish Reforma- 
tion 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret 

Maitland of Sunnyside ' . 20 

410 Old Lady Mai<j^ 10 

527 The Days of My Life . 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate . . , . \ . 20 

569 Harry 3Iuir . 20 

603 Agnes. First half . . . . . . . 20 

603 Agnes. Second half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. First half. . 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. Second half . 20 

605 Ombra 20 






Jr ^ A 

■I 


I 3 '^^ 'i^l'- 

i ^ Clr;: 


rVySCJ^^ 


Simon. — ..... “ Your tale, my friend, 

■ -Is made from notliing, and of nothings spun— 

Foam on the ocean, hoar-frost on the grass, 

The gossamer tlnreads that sparkle in the sun 
Patterned with morning dew— things that are born 
And die, are come and gone, blossom and fade 
Ere day mature .has drawn one sober breath.” 

Philip.—^'" ’Tis so; and so is life; and so is youth; 

Foam, frost, and dew; what would you? Maidens call 
That filmy gossamer the Virgin’s tlireads, 

And virgins’ lives are woven of threads like those.” 

The Two Poor Maidens. 



This book was written by the desire and at the suggestion of a 
dear friend, to whom it would have been dedicated had Providence 
permitted. But since tneu, all suddenly and unawares, he has 
been called upon to take that journfiy which every man must take. 
Upon the grave which has reunited him to his sweet wife, who went 
before, 1 lay this poor little soon-fading handful of mortal flowers. 
H. B. and E. B., faithful friends, wheresoever you may be in His 
wide universe, God bless you, dear and gentle souls I 


OMBRA 


CHAPTER 1. 

Katherine Courtenay was an only child, and a great heiress^ 
and both her jrarents had died before she was able to form any clear 
idea of them. She was brought up in total ignorance of the nat- 
ural life of childhood— that world hemmed in by the dear faces of 
father and mother, brother and sister, which forms to most girls the 
introductory chapter into life. She never knew it. She lived in 
Langton-Courtenay— with her nuise first, and then with her govern- 
ess, the center of a throng of servants, in the immense desolate 
•house. Even in these relationships the lonely child did not find 
the motherhood which lonely children so often find in the care of 
some pitying, tender-hearted stranger. Her guardian, who was 
her father’s uncle, an old man of the world, was one of those who 
distrust old servants, and accept from their inferiors nothing more 
than can be paid for. He had made up his mind Irom the begin- 
ning that. little Kate should not be eaten up by locusts, as he said 
— that she should have no kind of retainers about her, flattering her 
vanity with unnecessary attection and ostentatious zeal; but only 
honest servants (as honest, he would add, as they ever are), wdio ex- 
pected nothing but the day’s wages tor the day’s work. To piocure 
this, he allowed no cne to remain long with his ward. Her nurse 
was changed half a dozen times during the period in which she re- 
quired such a guardian; and her governess had shared the same 
fate. . She had never been allowed to attach herself to one more 
than another. When any signs of feeling made themselves appar- 
ent, Mr. Courtenay sent forth his remorseless decree. “ Kate shall 
never be any woman’s slave, nor any old servant’s victim, if 1 can 
help it,” ha said. He would have liked, had that teen practicable, 
- to turn her into a public school, and let her ‘‘ find her level,” as 
boys do; but as that was not practicable, he made sure, at least, that 
no sentimental influences should impair his nursling’s independ- 
ence and vigor. Thus the alleviations which natural sympathy and 


ii 




o:mbea. 


pity might have given her, were lost to Kate. Her attendants were 
afraid to love her; her often-changed instructresses bad to shut their 
hearts against the appeal of compassion, as well as the appeal made 
hy the girBs natural attractiveness. She had to be to them as prin- 
cesses are but rarely to iheii teachers and companions— a half-mis- 
tress, half-pupil. An act of utter self-renunciation was required 
of them before ever they set foot in Langton-Courtenay. l\Tr. 
Courtenay himself made the engagement, and prescribed its terms. 
He paid very liberally; and he veiled his insolence under the garb 
of perfect politeness. “ 1 do not wish Miss Courtenay to make any 
friends out of her own class,'' he would say. “ I shall do my ut- 
most to make the temporary connection between my niece and you 

advantageous to 30 urself, Miss . But I must exact, on the 

other side, that there shall be no sentimental bonds formed, no ever- 
lasting friendships, no false relationship. 1 have seen the harm ot 
such things, and suffered from it. Therefore, if these should be 
your ideas— 

“You wanted a governess, 1 heard, and 1 applied for the situa- 
tion —1 never thought of anything more," said quickly, with some 
offense, the irritated applicant. 

“Precisely," said Mr. Courtenay. “ With this understanding 
everything may be decided at once. 1 am happy to have met with 
a lady who' understands my meaning." And thus the bargain 
would be made. But, as it is natural to suppose, the ladies who 
were willing to take service under these terms, were by no means 
the highest of their class. Bometimes it would happen that Mr. 
Courtenay received a sharp rebuff in these preliminary negotiations 
“ 1 trust, of course, that 1 shall grow fond of my pupil, and she of 
me," said one stouter-hearted woman, lor example. And the old 
squire made her a sarcastic bow. 

“ Quite unnecessary — wholly unnecessary, 1 assure you," hesaid. 

“ Then there is nothing more to be said about it," was the reply: 
and this applicant— whose testimonials were so high, and were 
from such “ good people " (meaning, of course, from a succession 
of duchesses, countesses, and families of renown), that Mr. Courte- 
nay would, he confessed, have given “ any money " to secure her 
services— got up with impatience, and made him a courtesy which 
wmuld, could she have managed it, have been as sarcastic as his - 
bow, but which, as it turned oat, was only an agitated and awk- 
ward obeisance, tremulous witn generous rage: “ such an arrange- 
ment would be quite impossible to me." 

And so poor Kate missed a weman who might have been a kind 


OMBRA. 


9 


of secondary mother to the forlorn child, and acquired a mercenary 
draaon instead, who loved nohody, and was incapable ot attracting 
love 

The consequences of this training were not, perhaps, exactly 
such as might have been expected. Kate’s high spirits and ener- 
getic temper retained a certaia ascendency over her circumstances; 
her faults were serious and deep-rooted, but on the surface she had 
a gaiete du an impulsive power of sympathy and capacity 

for interesting herself in other people, which could not but be po- 
tent for gooa or evil in her life. It developed, however, in the first 
place, into a love or interference, and consequently of gossip, which 
would have alarmed any one really concerned for her character and 
happiness. She was kept from loving or from being loved. She 
was arbitrarily fixed among strangers, surrounded with faces which 
were never permitted to become familiar, defrauded of all the in 
terests of afl:ection; and her lively mind -avenged itself by a deter 
mination to know everything and meddle with everything within her 
reach. Kate at fifteen was not mournful, despondent, or solitary, 
as might have been looked for; on the contrary, she was the very 
type cf activity, a little inquisitive despot, the greatest gossip and 
busybody within a dozen miles of Langton-Courtenay. The ten- 
drils of her nature, which ought to have clung firm and close 
around some natural prop, trailed all abroad, and caught at every- 
thing. Nothing Was too paltry for her, and nothing too grand. She 
had the audacity to interfere in the matter of the lighted candles on 
the altar, when the new High- Church Kector of 'Langton first came 
into power; and she interfered remorselessly tc takeaway Widow 
Budd’s snuft, when it was found out that the reason she assigned 
for wanting it— the state of her eyes— was a shameful pretense. 
Kate did not shrink from either of these bold practical assaults 
upon the liberty of her subjects. She would no doubt have inquired 
into the queen’s habits, and counseled, if not required some change 
in them, had that illustrous lady paid a visit to Langton-Courtenay. 
This was how^ Nature managed itself for her especial training. She 
could no more be made unsympathetic, uneigetic, or deprived of 
her warm interest in the world, than she could be made sixty. But 
all these good qualities could be turned into evil, and this was what 
her guardian managed to do. It did not occur to him to watch 
over her personally during her childhood, and therefore he was un- 
conscious of the exact progress of affairs. 

Old Mr. Courtenay was totally unlike the child whom he had 
undertaken to train. He did not care a straw for his fellow-creat- 


10 


OMBEA. 


ures; they took their tvay, and he took his, and there was an end of 
the matter. "When any great calamity occurred, he shrugged his 
shouldets, and comforted himselt with the retiection that it must 
b(5 their own fault. When, cn the contrary, there was joy and re- 
joicing, he look his share of the feast, and reflected, with a smile, 
that wise men enjoy the banquets which fools make. To put your- 
self out of the way for anything that might happen, seemed to him 
the strangest, the most incomprehensible folly. And wnen he made 
up his mind to save the young heiress of his house from the locusts, 
and to keep her free from all connections or associations which 
might be a drag upon her in future times, he had been honestly un- 
conscious that he was doing wrong to Nature. Lovel— what did 
she want with love?— what was the good of it? Mr. Courtenay him- 
self got on very well without any such frivolous imaginary neces- 
sity, and so, of course, would Kate. He was so confident in the 
wisdom, and even in the naturalness of his system, that he did not 
oven think it worth his while to watch over its progres-. Of course 
it would come all right. Why should he trouble himself about the 
details? — to keep fast to this principle gave him quite enough 
trouble. Circumstances, however, had occurred which made it ex- 
pedient for him to visit Langton-Courtenay when Kate completed 
her fifteenth year. New people had appeared on the scene, who 
threatened to be a greater trouble to him, and a greater danger for 
Kate, than even the governesses; and his sense of duty was strong 
enough to move him, in thus far, at least, to personal interference 
on his ward’s behalf. 

At fifteen Kate Courtenay was the very impersonation of youth- 
ful beauty, vigcr, and impetuous life. She seemed to dance as 
she walked, to be eloquent and rhetorical when she spoke, out of the 
mere exuberance of her being. Her hair, which was full of color, 
chestnut-brown, still fell in negligent abundance about her shoul- 
ders; not in stiflt curls, after the old mode, nor cr^pe^ according to 
the new, but in one undulating, careless fiow. Though she was 
still dressed in the sackcloth of the school-rocm, there was an air of 
authoritative independence about her, more imposing a great deal 
than was that garb of complete womanhood, the “ long dress,” to 
which she looked forward with awe and hope. Her^ figure was 
full for her age, yet so light, so well-formed, so free and rapid in 
movement, that it had all the graceful efl;ect of the most girlish , 
slenderness. . Her voice was slightly high-pitched— not soft and 
low, as is the ideal woman’s — and she talked for three people, 
pouring forth her experiences, her recollections, her questions and 


OMBEA. 


11 


lerrtarks, in a flood. It was oot quite lady like, more tban one un- 
happy instructress of Kate’s youth had suggested; but there seemed 
no reason in the world why she should pay any attention to such 
a suggestion *'11 it is natural for me to talk so, why should 1 try 
to talk otherwise? Why should 1 care what pec'ple think? You 
may, Miss Blank, because they will And fault with you, and taae 
Bway your pupils, and that sort of thing; but nobody can do any- 
thing to me.*' This was Kate’s vindication of her voice, which 
rang through all Langton-Courtenay clear as a bell, and sweet enough 
to hear, but imperative, decisive, high-pitched, and unceasing. 
When her uncle saw her, his first sensation was one of pleasure. 
She w^as waiting for him on the step before the front door, the sun- 
shine surrounding her with a golden halo, made out of the stray 
golden luminous threads in her hair. . 

“ How do you do, uncle?” she called out to him as soon as he 
appeared. ” 1 am so glad you have made up your mind to come 
at last. It is always a change to have you here, and there are so 
many things 1 want to talk of. You have taken the fly from tlie 
station, 1 see, though the carriage went for you half an hour ago. 
That is what 1 am always telling you, Giles, you are continually 
halt an hour too late. Uncle, mind how you get down. That fly- 
hoise is the most vicious thing! She’ll go off wdien you have one 
foot to the ground, if you don’t mind. 1 told old Mrs. Sayers to 
sell her, but these people never will do what they are told. 1 am 
glad to see you. Uncle Courtenay. How do you do?” 

” A little bewildered with my journey, Kate— and to find you a 
young lady receiving your guests, instead of ashy little girl running 
ofl when you were spoken to.” 

” Was 1 ever shy?” said Kate, with unfeigned wonder. ” What 
a very odd thing! 1 don’t remember it. 1 thought 1 had always 
been as i am now. Tell Mrs. Sayers, Tom, that 1 have heard some- 
thing 1 don’t like about one of the people at Glenhouse, and that 
I am coming to ^eak to her to-morrow. Uncle, will you have 
some tea, or wine, or anything, or shall 1 take you to your room? 
Dinner is to be at seven. 1 am so glad you have come to make a 
change. 1 dinner at two. It suits Miss Blank’s digestion, but 
1 am sure 1 hate it, and now it shall be changed. Don’t you think 
1 am quite grown up. Uncle Courtenay? 1 am as tall as3^ou.” 

He was little, dried-up, shriveled — a small old man; and she a 
young Diana, with a bloom which had still all the freshness of 
childhood. Uncle Courtenay felt irritated when she measured her 
elastic figure beside the stooping form of his old age. 


12 


OMBRA. 


“ Yes, yes, yes!” he said, pettishly. ‘‘Grown up, indeed! 1 
should think you were. But stop this stream ot talk, lor heaven’s 
sake, and moderate your voice, and lake me in somewhere. 1 don’t 
want to have your height discussed among your servants, nor any- 
thing else 1 may have to say.” 

“Oh! tor that matter, 1 do not mind who hears me talk,” said 
Kate. “ Why should 1? Kobody, of course, ever interferes with 
me. Come into the library, uncle. 11 is nice and cool this hot day. 
Did you see any one in the village as jmu came up‘? Did you notice 
if there «vas any one at the rectory? They are curious people at 
the rectory, and don’t take the trouble to make themselves at all 
agreeable. Miss Blank thinks it very strange, considering that 1 
am the Lady of the Manor, and have a right to their respect, and 
ought to be considered and obeyed. Don’t you think, uncle — ” 

“Obeyed!” he said, with a laugh which was half amusement, 
and half consternation. “ A baby of fifteen is no more the Lady 
of the Manor than Miss Blank is. You silly child, what do you 
mean?’' 

“lam not a child,” said Kate, haughtily. “1 am quite aware 
of noy position. 1 may not be of age yet, but that does not make 
much difference. However, it ycu are tired, uncle, as 1 think you 
are by your face, 1 won’t bore you with that, though it is one of 
my grievances. Should you like to be left alone till dinner? If 
you would let me advise you, 1 should say lie down, and have some 
eau-de-Cologne on a handkerchief, and perhaps a cup of tea. It is 
the best thing for worry and headache.” 

“ In Heaven’s name, how do you know?” 

“ Perfectly well,” said Kate, calmly. “ 1 have made people do 
it a hundred times, and it has always succeeded. Perfect quiet, 
uncle, and a wet handkerchief on your forehead, and a cup of my 
special tea. 1 will tell Giles to bring you one, and a bottle ct eau- 
de-Cologne; and if 5mu don’t move till the dressing-bell rings, you 
will find yourself quite refreshed ana restored, "^hy, 1 have made 
people do it over and over again, audl have never known it to fail.” 


CHAPTER 11. 

Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had scarcely ever in 
her life been promoted before to the glories ot a late dinner. Bhe 
had received no visitors, and the house was still under the school- 
room sway, as ‘became her age; consequently this was a great era 


OMBEA. 


13 


to Kate. She placed herself at the head of the table, with a pride 
and dolii^ht Avhich neither her cynical old uncle nar her passive gov- 
erness had the least notion of. The occurrence was trifling to them, 
but to her its importance was immense. Miss Blank, who was 
troubled by fears of being in the way— fears wiiich her charge 
made no efiort to lighten— and whose digestion, besides, was feeble, 
preferred to leave Kate alorie to entertain her uncle. This dinner 
had been the subject of Kate’s thoughts for some days. She had 
insisted on the production of all the plate which the little household 
at Bangton had been permitted to retain; she had tire table decked 
with a profusion of flowers. She had not yet discretion enough to 
know that a small table would have been in better taste than the 
large one, seated at opposite ends of which her guardian and herself 
were as if miles apart They could not see each other far the flow- 
ers; they could scarcely hear each otlier for the distance; but Kate 
was happy. There was a certain grown-up grandeur, even in the 
discomfort. As for Mr. Courtenay, he was extremely impatient. 

What a tool the girl must be!” he said to himself; and went on 
to comment bitterly upon the popular fallacy which credits women 
with intuitive good taste and social sense, at least. When he made 
a remark upon the long distance that separated them, Kate cheer- 
full v suggested that he should come up beside her. She took away 
his breath by her boldness; she deafened him with her talk. Be- 
hind that veil of flowers which concealed her young bright figure, 
she poured forth the monologue of a rural gossip, never pausing 
to inquire if he knew or cared anything about the objects of it. 
And of course Mr. Courtenay neither knew ncr cared. His ow n 
acquaintance with the house of his father had ended long before 
she was born, before her father had succeeded to the property; and 
he never had been interested in the common people who formed 
Kate’s world. Then it was very apparent to Kate’s uncle that the 
man who waited (and waited very badly) grinned without conceal- 
ment at his young mistress’s talk; and that Kate herself was not 
indifferent to \\\Q;fond of appreciation thus secured to her. It wxuld 
be impossible to put into words the consternation which filled him 
as he eat an indifferent dinner, and listened to all this. He had 
succeeded so far that no one governess nor maid had secured do- 
minion over the mind of the future sovereign of Langton; but at 
what a cost had he secured it! ‘‘You seem to interest yourself a 
great deal about all these people,” he said at length. 

” Yes, Uncle Courtenay, ot course 1 do. 1 have nobody else to 
take an interest in,” said Kate. ‘‘ But the people at the rectory are 


14 


OMBKA. 


very disagreeable. If the liviog should fall vacant in my time, it 
certainly shall never go to one of them. The second son, flerbert, 
whom they call Beilie, is going in for the Church, and 1 suppose 
they think he will succeed his father; but 1 am sure he never shall, 
if that happens in my time. There are two daughters, Edith and 
Minnie; and 1 don’t think Mrs. Hardwick can be a good manager, 
for the girls are always so hadly dressed; and you hnow, Uncle 
Courtenay, it is a very good living. 1 have felt tempted a dozeii 
times to say, ‘ Why don’t you clothe the girls better?’ If they had 
been farmers, or anything of that sort, I should at once—” 

” And how do the farmers like your interference, Kate?” 

” My interference. Uncle Courtenay 1 Vrh}, of course one must 
speak if one sees things going wrong. But to return to the Hard- 
wicks. 1 did write, you know, about the candles on the altar—” 

” Why, Kate, 1 did not know how universal you were,” said her 
uncle, half amused—” theological, too?” 

” X don’t know about theology; but burning candles in daylight, 
when there was not a bit of darkness— not a fog, even— what is the 
good of it? 1 thought 1 had a right to let Mr. Hardwick know. 
It is my parish and my tenantry, and 1 do not mean to give them 
up . Isn’t the queen the head of the Church?— then, of course, 1 
am the head of Langton-Courtenay, and it is flat rebellion on the 
rector’s part. What do you mean, Uncle Courtenay?— are you 
laughing at me?” 

” Why, Kate, your theories take away my breath,” said Mr. 
Courtenay. ” Don’t ycu think this is going a little too far? You 
can not be head of the Church in Langton-Courtenay without inter- 
fering with her Majesty’s prerogative. She is over all the country, 
you know. You don’t claim the power of the sword, 1 hope, as 
well—” 

“ What is the power of the sword, uncle? 1 should claim any- 
thing that 1 thought belonged to me,” cried Kate. 

” But ycu Tvould not hold a court, 1 hope, and erect a gallows in 
the court-yard,” said Mr. Courtenay. ” 1 suppose our ancestor. 
Sir Bernard, had the right, but 1 would not advise you tc claim it, 
my dear. Kate, now that the man is gone, 1 must (ell you that 1 
think you have teen very impertinent to the rector, and nothing 
but the fact that you are a baby, and don’t know what j^ou’re do- 
ing—” 

“A baby!— and impertinent 1— uncle! — X!’' 

” Yes, you— though you think yourself such a great personage, 
you must leain to remember that you are a child, my dear. 1 wdll 


OMBKA. 


15 


make a point of calling on the rector to-morrow, and 1 hope he will 
look over your nonsense. But remember there must be no more of 
it, Kate.” 

“ Don’t speak to me like that,” she said, half weeping. “ 1 will 
not be so spoken to. Uncle, you aie only my guardian, and it is 
1 whu am the mistress here.” 

You little fool!” he said, under his breath; and then a sudden 
twinge came over him— a doubt whether he had been as wise as he 
thought he had been in the training of this girl. He was not the 
sort of man, so common in the world, to whom cynicism in every 
other respect is compatible with enthusiasm in respect to himself. 
He was a universal cynic. He distrusted himself as well as other 
people, and consequently he did not shut his eyes to the fact that 
a mistake had been made. While Kate dried her eyes hastily, and 
tried her best to maintain her dignity, and overcome those tempta- 
tions toward the hysterical which prevented her from making an 
immediate reply, her uncle was so candid as to stop short, as it 
were, in his own course, and review a decision he had just made. 
He had not known Kate when he made it; now that he saw her in 
all her force and untamableness, with all those wonderful ideas of 
her position, and determination to interfere with every one, he could 
not but think that it might be wise to reconsider the question. 
What should he do with this unmanageable girl?— good heavens! 
what could he do with her? Whereas, here was a new influence 
offering itself, which perhaps might do all that was wanted. Mr. 
Courtenay pondered while Kate recovered some appearance of 
calm. She had never (she said to herself) been so spoken tc in her 
life. She did not understand it— she would not submit to it! And 
when the hot mist of tears dried up from her eyes, Kate looked 
from behind the flowers at Mr. Courtenay, with her heart beating 
high for the conflict, and yet felt daunted — she coulil not tell how 
— and did not know what to do. She would have liked to rush out 
of the room, slamming the door behind her; but in that case she 
would have lost at once her dignity and the strawberries, which are 
tempting at fifteen. She would not let him see that he had beaten 
her; and yet — how could she begin the struggle?— what could she 
say? She sat and peeped at him from behind the vase of flowers 
which stood in the center of the table, and was silent for five whole 
minutes in her bewilderment — perhaps longer than she ev,er had 
been silent before in her life. Finally, it was Mr. Courtenay who 
broke the silence— a tact which of itself gave him a vast advantage 
over her. 


OMBKA. 


“Kate/’ he said, “1 have listened lo you for a long time, 1 
want you now lo listen to me for a little. Aou have heard of your 
Aunt Anderson? She is your mother’s only sister. She has been 
— i suppose you know? — for a long lime abroad.” 

‘ 1 don’t know anything about her,” said Kate, pouting. This 
was not entirely true, for she had heard just so much of this un- 
known relation as a few rare letters received from her could tell — 
letters which left no particular impression upon Kate’s mind, ex- 
cept the fact that her correspondent signed herself “ Your affec- 
tionate Aunt,” and which had ceased for years. Kate’s mother 
had not been born on the Langton-Courtenay level. She had been 
the daughter of a solicitor, whose introduction into the up-to-that- 
moment spotless pedigree of the Courtenays lay very heavy on the 
heeirt of the family. Kate knew this fact very well, and it galled 
her. She might have forgiven her mother, but she felt a visionary 
grudge against her ahnt, and why should she care to know any^ 
thing about her? Ihis sense of inlerioiity cn the part of her rela- 
tion kept her silent, as well as the warm and lively force of temper 
which dissuaded her from showing any interest in a matter sug- 
gested by her uncle. I f she could but have kept up so philosophic- 
al a way of thinking! But the fact was, that no sooner had she 
answered than her usual curiosity and human interest in her fellow- 
creatures began to tug at Kate’s heart. What was he going to tell 
her about her Aunt Anderson? Who was she? What was she? 
What manner of woman? Was she poor, and so capable of being 
made Kate’s vassal; or well' off, and likely to meet her niece on 
equal terms? She had to shut up her lips very tight, lest some of 
these many questions should burst from them. And if Uncle 
Courtenay had tut known his advantage, and kept silent a little,, 
she would have almost gone on her knees to him for further infor- 
mation. But Mr. Courtenay did not understand his advantage, and 
went on talking. 

“ Her husband was British consul somewhere or other in Italy. 
They have been all over the Continent, in one place and another, 
but he died a year ago, and now they have come home. She wishes 
to see you, Kate. 1 have got a letter from her— with a great deal 
of nonsense in it— but that by the way. There is a great deal of 
nonsense in all women’s letters! She wants to come here, 1 sup- 
pose, but 1 don’t choose that she should come here.’' 

“ Why, Uncle Courtenay?” said Kate, forgetting hei wrath in 
the. excitement of this novelty. 

“ It is unnecessary to enter into my reasons. When you are of 


OMBRA. 


17 


age you can have whom you please; hut in the meantime 1 don’t 
intend that this house should be a center of meddling and gossip 
for the whole neighbortood. So the aunt sha’n’t come. But you 
can go and visit her for a few weeks, if you choose, Kate.'’ 

“ Why shouldn’t my aunt come if 1 wish it?” cried Kate, furi- 
ous. ” Uncle Courtenay, 1 tell you again you are only my guard- 
ian, and Langlon-Courtenay belongs to me!'' 

‘‘And I reply, my dear, that you are fifteen, and nothing be- 
longs to you,’' said the old man, with a smile. ‘‘ It is hard to re- 
press so much noble independence, but still that is the truth.” 

‘‘You are a tyrant— you are a monster, Uncle Courtenay! I 
won’t submit io it! 1 will appeal to seme one. 1 will take it into 
my own hands.” 

‘‘ The most sensible thing you can do, in the meantime, is to re- 
tire to your own room, and try to bring yourself back to common- 
sense,” said Ml. Courtenay, contemptuously. ‘‘ Kot another word, 
Kate. Where is your governess, or your nurse, or whoever has 
charge of you? Little fool! do you think, because you rule over 
a pack of obsequious servants, that you can manage me?” 

” 1 will not be ycur slave! 1 will never, never be your slave!” 
cried Kate, springing to her feet, and raising her flushed face over 
the flowers. Her eyes blazed, her little rosy band was clinched so 
tight that the soft knuckles were white. Her lips were apart, her 
breath burned, her soul was on fire. Quite ready for a fight, ready 
to meet any enemy that might come against her— breathing tire and 
flame! 

‘‘Pho! pho! child, don’t be a fool!” said Mr. Courtenay; and 
be calmly rang the bell, and ordered Giles to remove the wine- to a 
small table which stood in the window, whither he removed him- 
self presently, without taking the least notice of her. 

Kate stood for a moment, like a young goddess of war, thunder- 
stricken by the calm cf her adversary; and then rushed out, fling- 
ing down her napkin, and dragging a corner of the table cloth, so 
as to upset the great dish of ruby strawberries which she had not 
tasted. They fell on the floor like a heavy shower, scattering over 
all the carpet; and Kate closed the door after her with a thud which 
ran through the whole house. She paused a moment in the hall, 
irresolute. Poor untrained, unfriended child, she had no one to 
go to, to seek comfort from. She knew how Miss Blank would 
receive her passion; and she was too proud to acknowledge to her 
maid, Maryanne, how she had been beaten. She caught the broad- 
brimmed garden-bat which hung in tlie hall, and a shawl to wrap 


18 


OMBRA. 


herself in, and rushed out, a forlorn, solitary young creature, into 
the noble park that was her own. Ihere was not a child in the 
village but had some one to fly to when it had received a blow; but 
Kate had nc one— she had to calm herself down, and bear her pas- 
sion and its consequences alone. She rushed across the park, for- 
getting even that her uncle Courtenay could see her from the win- 
dow, and unconscious of the chuckle with which he perceived her 
' discomfiture. “ Little passionate idiot !” he said to himself, as he 
sipped his wine. But yet perhaps had he known what was to 
come of it, Mr. Courtenay would not have been quite so contented 
with himself. He had forgotten all about the feelings and sufl:er- 
ings of her age, if indeed he had ever known them. He did not 
care a jot for the mortification and painful rage with which he had 
filled her. “ Serve her right!” he would have said. He was old 
himself, and far beyond the reach of such tempests; and he.had no 
pity for them. But all the more he thought with a sense cf com- 
fort of this Mrs. Anderson, with her plebeian name, and senti- 
mental anxiety about ” the only child of a beloved sister.” The 
beloved sister herself had not been very welcome in Langton-Courte- 
nay. The consul’s widow should never be allowed to enter here, 
that was very certain; but, still, use might be made of her to train 
this ungovernable child. 


CHAPTER 111. 

Kate Courtenay rushed across the park in a passion of morti- 
fication and childish despair, and fled as fast as her swift feet 
could carry her to a favorits spot—a little dell, through which^ (he 
tiniest of brooks ran trickling, so hidden under the trees and copse 
that even summer never quite dried it up. There was a little semi- 
artificial water-fall, just where the brook descended into the depths 
of this little dell. In spring it was a wilderness of primroses and 
violets; and so long as wild flowers would blow, they were always 
to he found in this sunny nook. The only drawback was that a 
footpath ran within sight of it, and that the village had an often- 
contested right of way skirting the bank. Kate had issued arbi- 
trary orders more than once that no one was to be suffered to pass; 
but the law was too strong for Kate, as it had been for her grand- 
fathers before her; and, on the whole, perhaps the occasional pas- 
senger had paid for his intrusion by the additional liveliness he bad 
given to the landscape. It was one of Kate’s ” tricks,” her gov- 


OMBKA. 


19 


erness once went so tar as tc say, to take her evening walk here, in 
order to detect the parties o! lovers with whom tJiis footway was a 
favorite resort. All this, however, was absent from Kate’s mind 
now. She rushed through the trees and bushes, and threw herself 
on the sunny grass by the brook-side; and at fifteen passion is not 
silent, as it endeavors to be at a more advanced age. Kate did not 
weep only, hut cried, and sobbed, and made a noise, so that some 
one passing by in th^ footway on the other side of the bushes was 
arrested by the sound, and drew near. 

It is hard to hear sounds of weeping in a warm summer evening, 
when the air is sweet with sounds of pleasure. There is something 
incongruous in it, which wounds the listener. The passenger in 
this case was young and tender-hearted, and he was so far like 
Kate herself, that when he heard sounds of trouble, he felt that he 
had a right to interfere. He was a clergyman’s son, and in the 
course of training to be a clergyman too. His immediate destina- 
tion was, as soon as he should be old enough tc be ordained, the 
curacy of Langton-Couitenay, of which his father was rector. 
Whether he should eventually succeed his father was of course in 
the hands of Providence and Miss Courtenay; he had not taken his 
degree yet, and was at least two years ofl; the time when he could 
take orders; but still the shadow of his profession was upon him, 
and, in right of that, Herbert Hardwick felt that it was his busi- 
ness to interfere. . 

What he saw, when he looked through the screen of trees, was 
the figure of a girl in a light summer dress, half seated, half lying 
on the grass. Her head was bent down between her hands; and 
even had this not been the case, it is probable Bertie, who had 
scarcely seen Miss Courtenay, would not have recognized her. Of 
course, had he taken time to think, he must have known at once 
that nobody except Kate, or some visitor at the Hall, was likel}^ to 
be there; but he never tcok time to think. It was not his way. 
He stepped at once over the fence, walking through the brushwood, 
and strode across the brook without pause or hesitation. 

“ What is the matter?'’ he said, in his boyish promptitude. 
“ Have you hurt yourself? — have you lest your way? — what is 
wrong?” 

For a moment she took no notice of him, except to turn her back 
more completely on him. Herbert had sisters, and he was not so 
ceremonious to young womankind generally as might otheiwise 
have happened. He laid his hand quite frankly on her shoulder, and 
knelt down beside her on the grass. ” Ko,'’ he said, with a certain 


20 


OMBRA. 


authoiity, “ my poor child, whoeyer you may be, 1 can’t leave you 
to cry youi eyes out. What is the matter? Look up and tell me. 
Have you lost yourself? 11 j'^ou will tell me where you have come 
from, 1 will take you home. Or have you hurt yourself? Now, 
pray don’t be cross, but answer, and let me know what 1 can do.” 

Kate had almost got her weeping-fit over, and surprise had 
wakened a new sentiment in her mind. {Surprise and curiosity, 
and the liveliest desire to know whose the voice was, and whose 
the hand laid so lightly, yet with a certain authority, upon her 
shoulder. She made a dash with her handkerchief across her face to 
clear away the tears, and then she suddenly turned round and con- 
fronted her comforter. She looked up at him with tears hanging 
on her eyelashes, and her face wet with them, yet with all the soul 
of self-will which was natural to her looking out of her eyes. 

“ Do you know,” she said hastily, ” that you are trespassing? 
This is private prcperty, and you have no right to be here.” 

The answer which Bertie Hardwick made to tnis was, first, an 
astonished stare, and then a burst of laughter. The sudden change 
from sympathy and concern to amusement was so great that it 
produced an explosion of merriment which he could not restrain. 
He was a handsome lad of twenty— blue-eyed, with brown hair 
curling closely about his head, strongly built, and full of life, 
though not gigantic in his proportions. Even now, though he had 
heard of the imperious little Lady of the Manor, it did not occur 
to him to connect her with this stranger. He laughed with perfect 
heartiness and abandon ; she looking on quite gravely and steadily 
the while, assisting at the outburst — a fact which did not diminish 
the amusing character of the scene. 

‘‘ 1 came to help you,” he said. ” 1 hope you will not give in- 
formation. Nobody will know” 1 have trpspassed unless you tell, 
and that would be ungrateful; tor 1 thought there was something 
the matter, and came to be of use tc you/’ 

“ There is nothing the matter,” said Kate, very gravely, making 
a photograph of him with the keen, inquisitive eyes, from which, 
by this time, all tears were gone. 

‘‘1 am glad to hear it, ’’ he said; and then, with another laugh — 
” 1 suppose you are trespassing too. Can 1 help you over the 
fence?— or is there anything that 1 can do?” 

‘‘lam not trespassing- 1 am at home— 1 am Miss Courtenay,” 
said Kate, with infinite dignity, rising from the grass. She stood thus 
looking at him with the air of a queen defending her realm from 
invasion; she felt, to tell the truth, something like Helen Macgreg- 


OMBRA. 


21 


or, when she staits up suddenly, and demands of the Sassenach 
how they dare to come into MacGregor’s country. But the young 
man ^as not impiessed; the muscles about his mouth quivered 
with suppressed laughter and the strenuous edort to keep it down. 
He made her a bow— the best he cculd under the circumstances — 
and stood with the evening sunshine shining upon his uncovered 
head and crisp curls, a very pleasant object to look upon, in an at- 
titude of respect which w^as half fun and half mockery, though 
Ivate did not find that out. 

“ Then 1 have been mistaken, and there is nothing for it but to 
apologize, and take myselt off ” said Bertie. “ 1 am very sorry, t 
am sure. 1 thought something had gone w’rong. To tell the truth, 
1 thought you were— crying.” 

‘‘ 1 m/s crying,” said Kate. Rhe did not in the least want him 
to go. He was company — he was novelty— he was something.quite 
fresh, and already had altogether driven away her passion and her 
tears. Her heart quite leaped up at this agreeable diversion. ” 1 
was crying, and something had gone very wrong,” she said in a 
subdued tone, and with a gentle sigh. 

“lam very sorry,” said Bertie. “ 1 don’t suppose it is any- 
thing in which 1 could be of use—” 

She looked at him again. “ 1 think 1 know who you are,” she 
said. “ You must be the second son at the rectory — the one whom 
they call Bertie. At least 1 don’t know who else you could be.” 

“ Y^es, 1 am the one they call Bertie,” he said, laughing. “ Her- 
bert Hardwick, at your service. And 1 did not mean to trespass.’* 

The laugh rang pleasantly through all the echoes. It was infec- 
tious. Kate felt that, but for her dignity, she would like to laugh 
too. And yet it was a serious matter, and to aid and abet a tres- 
passer, and at the same time “encourage” the rectory people, 
was, she felt, a thing which she ought not to do. But then it had 
been real concern for herself, the Lady of the Manor, which had 
been at the bottom of it; and that deserved to be considered on the 
other side. 

“ 1 suppose not,” she said, seriously. “ Indeed, 1 am very par- 
ticular about it. 1 don’t see why you should laugh. I should not 
think of going to walk in your grounds without leave, and why 
should you in mine? But since you are here, you must not go all 
that way back. If you like to come with me, 1 will show jmu 
a nearer way. Lon’t 5^ou think it is a very fine park? Were you 
ever in one like It botore?” 

“ Y^es,” said Herbert, calmly, “ a great many. Langton-Courte- 


22 


OMBRA. 


nay is very nice, but it wants size. The glades are pretty, and the 
trees are charming, but everything is on a small scale,’’ 

“ On a small scale!” Kate cried, half choking with indignation. 
This unparalleled presumption took away even her voice. 

'* Yes, decidedly small. How many acres are there in it? My 
uncle. Sir Herbert Eldridge, has five hundred acres in his. 1 am 
called after him, and i have been a great deal with him, you know. 
That is why 1 think your park so small. But it is very pretty!” 
said Herbert, condescendingly, with a sense of the humor of the 
situation. As tor Kate, she was crushed. She looked up at him 
first in a blaze of disdain; intending to do battle for her own, but 
the number of acres in Sir Herbert Eldridge’s park made an end of 
%ate. 

‘‘ 1 thought you were going to be a clergyman,” she said. 

“ So I am, 1 suppose, but what then?” 

“Oh! 1 thought— 1 didn’t know,” cried Kate. ‘‘I supposed^ 
perhaps, you were not very well off. But if you have such a rich 
uncle, with such a beautiful park — ” 

” 1 don’t know what that has to do with it,” said Bertie, with a 
mischievous light in his eyes. ” We are not so very poor. We 
have dinners three or four times a week, and bread and cheese on 
the other days. A great many people are worse oft than that.” 

” If you mean to laugh at me,” said Kale, stopping shorl^ with 
an angry gesture, ” 1 think you had better turn back again. 1 am 
not a person to be made fun of.” And then instantly the water 
rushed to her eyes, for she was as susceptible as any child is to ridi- 
cule. The young man checked himself on the verge of laughter, 
and apologized. 

” 1 beg your nardon,” he said. ” 1 did nrd mean to make my- 
self disagreeable. Besides, 1 don’t think you are quite well. I 
hope you will let me walk with you as far as the Hall.” 

‘‘Oh! no,” said Kate. But the suppressed tears, which had 
come tc her eyes out of rage and indignation, suddenly grew blind- 
ing with self-pity, and recollection of her hard fate. ‘‘Oh! you can’t 
think how unhappy 1 am,” she said suddenly, clasping her hands 
together— and a big tear came with a rush down her innocent nose, 
and tell throwing up a little shower of salt spray from the concus- 
sion, upon her ungloved hand. This startled her, and her sense of 
dignity once mere awoke; but she struggled with difiiculty against 
her desire for sympathy. ‘‘ 1 ought not to talk to a strangei,” she 
said; ” but, oh! you can’t think hew disagreeable Hncle Courtenay 
can make himself, though he looks so nice. And Mias Blank does 


OMBKA. 


23 


not mind if I were dead and buried. Oh!” This exclamation was 
called forth by another great blot of dew from her eyes, which once 
more dashed and broke upon her hand, as a wave does on a rock. 
Kate looked at it with a silent concern which absorbed her. Her 
own tears! What was there in the world more touching or more 
sad? 

” I am so sorry,” said Bertie Hardwick, mo'ved by compassion. 
” Was that what you were crying tor? You should ccme to tne 
rectory, to my mother, who always sets everybody right.” 

” Your mother would not care to see me,” said Kate, looking at 
him wistfully. ” She does not like me — she thinks I am your 
enemy. Per>ple should consider, Mr. Bertie — they should consider 
my position — ” 

Yes, you poor little thing,” said Bertie, with the utmost sym- 
pathy; ” that is quite true -you have neither father nor mother to 
keep you right— people ought to make allowance for that.” 

To describe Kate’s consternation at this speech would be im- 
possible. She- a poor little thing! she without any one to set her 
right! Was the boy mad? She was so stunned for the moment 
that she could make no reply— so many new emotions overwhelmed 
her. To mase the discovery that Bertie Hardwick was nice, that 
he had an uncle with a park larger tlian the park at Langton-Courte- 
nay, to learn that Langton-Courtenay was “small,” and that she 
herself was a poor little thing. “ What next?” Kate asked herself. 
For all this had come to her knowledge in the course of half an 
hour. If life was to bring a succession of such surprises, how 
strange, how very strange it must be! 

“ And 1 do wish you knew my mother,” he went on innocently, 
not having the least idea that Kate’s silence arose from the fact that 
she was dumb with indignation; “ she has the gift of undeistand- 
ing everybody. Isn’t it a pity that you should not know us, Miss 
Courtenay? My little sister Minnie is about your age, 1 should 
think.” 

“ It is not my fault 1 don’t know you,” burst forth Kate; “ it is 
because you have not behaved properly to me— because your father 
would not pay any attention. Is it right for a clergyman to set a 
bad example, and teach people to rebel? He never even took any 
notice of my letter, though 1 am the natural head of the parish—” 

“You poor child!” cried Bertie; and then he laughed. 

Kate could not bear it ^this was worse than her uncle Courtenay. 
She stood still for a moment, and looked at him with things un- 
speakable in her eyes; and then she turned round, and rushed off 


24 


OMBKA. 


across the greensward to the Hall, leaving him Bewildered and 
amazed in the middle of the park, this time most evidently a tres- 
passer, not even knowing his way back. He called after her, but 
received no answer; he stood and gazed round him in his conster- 
nation. Finally he laughed, though this time it was at himself, 
thus left in the lurch. But Kate was not aware of that fact. She 
heard the laugh, and it gave her wings; she fled to her melancholy 
home, where there was nobody to comfort her, choking with sobs, 
and rage. Oiil how forlorn she was! oh! how insulted, despised, 
trodden upon by everybody, she who was the lawful lady of the 
land! He would go and tell the rectory girls, and together they 
would laugh at her. Kate would have sent a thunder-holt on the 
rectory, or fire from heaven, if she could. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Kate rushed upstairs to her own room when she reached the 
Hall; she was wild with mortification and the sense of downfall. 
It was the first time she had come into collision with her fellow- 
creatures of a class equal to her own. Servants and poor people in 
the village had been impertiaeut to her ere now; but these were 
accidents, which Kate treated with the contempt they deserved, 
and which she could punish by the withdrawal of privileges and 
presents. She could scold, and did so soundly; and she could 
punish. Bui she could neither scold nor punish in the present 
case. Her uncle Courtenay would only look at her in that exas- 
perating way, with that cool smile on his face, as it she were a 
kitten; and this new being, with whom already she felt herself so 
well acquainted — Bertie would laugh, and be kind, and sorry for 
her. “Poor child! poor little thing!’' These were the words he 
had dared to use. “ Oh!" Kate thought, “1 would like to kill 
him! 1 would like to—" And then she asked herself what would 
he say at home? — and writhed on the bed on which she had throwa 
herself in inextinguishable shame. They would laugh at her; they 
would make fun of her. “ Oh! 1 would like to kill myself cried 
Kate, in her thoughts. She cried her eyes out in the silence of her 
room. * There was no Bertie to come there with sympathetic eyes 
to ask what she was doing. Miss Blank did not care; neither did 
any one in the house — not even her own maid, who was always 
about her, and to wdiom she would talk for hours together. Kate 
buiied her head in her pillow, and tried to picture to herself the 


OMBRA. 


25 


aspeci of Ihe rector 5 \ Iheie would be the mother — who, Bertie 
said, understood everybody— seated somewliere near the table; and 
Edith and Minnie in the room — one of them, perhaps, doing 
worsted- work, one at the piano, or copying music, oi drawing, as 
young ladies do in novels. Now and then, no doubt. Airs. Hard- 
wick would give them little orders, she would say, perhaps, “ Play 
me one of the Lieder, Alinnie,’' or “ that little air of Aiozart’s.^’ And 
she would say something about her work to Edith. Involuntarily 
that picture rose before lonely Kate. She seemed to see them 
seated there, with the windows open, and sweet scents coming in 
from the garden. She heard the voices murmuring, and a soft little 
andante pianissimo^ tinkling like the soft flow cf a stream 
through the pleasant place. Oh! how pleasant it must be— even 
though she did not like the rectory people, though Air Hardwick 
had been so rebellious, though they did not believe in her (Kate’s) 
natural headship of Church and State in Langton- Courtenay, 

She sobbed as she lay and dreamed, and developed her new im. 
agination. She had wondered, half angiily, half wistfully, about 
the rectory people before, but Bertie seemed to give a certain 
reality to them. He was the brother of the girl wdiom Kate had sc 
often inspected with keen eyes, but did not know% and be said 
“mamma” to that unknown Airs. Plardwdck. “Alamma!” 
■\Vbat a curious word it was, when you came to think of it I Not 
so serious, ncr full of meaning as mother was, but soft and caress- 
ing— as of some one who would always feel for you, always put her 
arm round you, say “dear” to you, ask wdiat was the matter? 
Miss Blank never asked what was the matter! She look it for 
granted that Kate was cross, that it was “ her own fault,” or, as 
the very kindest hypothesis, that she had a headache, which was not 
in Kate’s way. 

She lay sobbing, as 1 have said; but sobbing softly, as her emo- 
tion wore itself out, without tears! Her eyes were red, and her 
temples throbbed a little. She was worn out; she would not rouse 
herself and go down-stairs to tempt another conflict with her uncle, 
as, had it not been for this last event, she would have felt disposed 
to do. And yet, poor child, she wanted her tea. Dinner had not 
been a satisfactory meal, and Kale could not help saying to her* 
self that if Alinnie anti Edith had been suffering as she was, their 
mamma would have come to them in the dark, and kissed them, 
and bathed their hot foreheads, and brought them cups of tea. 
But there was no one to bring a cup of tea, without being asked, to 
a girl who had no mother. Kate had but to ring her bell, aud/she 


26 


OMBRA. 


could have had whatever she pleased; tut what did that matter? 
No one came near her, as it happened. The governess and her 
maid both supposed her to be with her uncle, and it was only when 
Maryanne came in at nine o’clock to piepare her young mistress’s 
hair- brushes and dressing-gown, that the young mistress was 
found, to Maiyanne’s consternation, stretched on her bed, with a 
face as white as her dress, and eyes surrounded with red rings. 
And in the dark, of all things in the world, in a place like Lang- 
ton-Courtenay, where it was well known the Blue Lady w^alked and 
turned folks to stone! At the first glance Maryanne felt certain 
that the Blue Lady only could be responsible for the condition in 
which her young mistress was found. 

“ Oh! miss,” she cried, “ and why didn’t you ring the bell?” 

“ It did not matter,” said Kate, reproachful and proud. 

“ Lying there all in the dark — and it don’t matter! Oh! miss, I 
know as you ain’t timorsome like me, but if you was once to see 
something — ” 

“ Hold your tongue!” said Kate, peremptorily. See some- 
thing! The thing is, in this house, that one never sees anything! 
One might die, and it never would be known, ^ou don’t care 
enough for one to come and look if one is dead or alive.” 

‘‘Oh! miss!” 

“Don’t say ‘ Oh! miss!’ to me,” cried Kate, indignantly, “or 
pretend — Go and fetch me some tea. That is the only thing you 
can do. You don’t forget your own tea, or anything else you 
want; but when I am out of sorts, or nave a — headache—” 

Kate had no headache, except such as her crying had made; but 
it was the staple malady, the thing that did duty tor everything in 
Miss Blank’s vocabulary, and her pupil naturally followed her 
example, to this extent, at least. 

“ Have you got a headache, miss? I’ll tell Miss Blank— I’ll 
go and fetch the housekeeper.” 

“ If you dc, 1 will ask Uncle Courtenay to send you away to- 
morrow!” cried Kate. “ Go and fetch me some tea.” 

But the tea which she had to order for herself was very different,, 
she felt sure, from the tea that Edith Hardwick’s mother would 
have carried upstairs to her unasked. It was. tea made by Mary- 
anne, who was not very careful if the nettle was boiling, and who 
had filled a large tea-pot full of water, in order to get this one cup. 
It was very hot and very washy, and made Kate angry. She sent 
away Maryanne in a fit of indignation, and did her own hair for 
the night, and made herself very uncomfortable. How different ii 


OMBRA. 


iniist be with Edith and Minnie! If Kate had only known it, how- 
ever. Edith and Minnie, had they conducted themselves as she was 
doing, would have been metaphorically whipped and put to bed. 

In the morning she came down with pale cheeks, but no one took 
any notice. Uncle Courtenay was reading his paper, and had other 
things to think of; and Miss Blank intended to ask what her pupil 
had been doing with herself when they should be alone together in 
the school room. They eat their meal in a solemn slience, broken 
only now and then by a remark trcm Miss Blank, which w’as scarce- 
ly less solemn. Uncle Courtenay took no notice — he read his 
paper, which veiled him even from his companions' e 3 ^es. At last. 
Miss Blank, having finished her breakfast, made a sign to Kate 
that it was time to rise; and then Kate took courage. 

“ Uncle Counenay,” she said very softly, “ you said you were 
going to call— at— the rectory 

Uncle Courtenay looked at her round the corner of his paper. 

Well,’' he S9’d, “ what of that? Of course 1 shall call at the 
rectory — after what you have told me, 1 have no choice.” 

*' Then please — may 1 go with you?” said Kate. She cast down 
her eyes demurely as she spoke, and consequently did not see the 
inquiring glance that he cast at her; but she saw, under her e 3 *e- 
lashes, that he had laid dowm his paper; and this evidence of com- 
motion was a comfort to her soul. 

** Go with me!” he said. ‘‘Not to give the rector any fuither 
impertinence, 1 hope?” 

Kate's eyes flashed, but she restrained herself. ” 1 have never 
been impertinent to any one, uncle. If 1 mistook what 1 had a 
right to, was that my fault? 1 am willing to make it up, if they 
are; and 1 can go alone if 1 mayn’t go with 3 "ou.” 

‘‘Oh! you can go with me if you choose,” said Mr. Courtenay, 
ungraciously; and then he took up his paper. But he was not so 
ungracious as he appeared; he was rather glad, on the whole, to 
have this opportunity of talking to her, and to see that, as he 
thought, his reproof cf the previous night had produced so imme- 
diate an effect. He said to himself, cheerfully, ‘‘ Come, the child 
is not so ungovernable after all;” and was pleased, involuntarily, 
by the success of his operation. He was pleased, too, with her 
appearance when she was dressed, and ready to accompany him. 
She was subdued in tone, and less talkative a great deal than she 
had been the day before. He took it for granted that it was his 
influence that had dene this — ” Another proof,” he said to himself, 
** how expedient it is to show that you are master, and will stand no 


OMBRA. 


nonsense.” He had been so despairing about her the night before, 
and saw such a vista of troubles before him in the six years of 
guardianship that remained, that this docility made him at once 
complacent and triumphant now. 

“ 1 don't 'Want to be hard upon you, Kate,” he said; ” but you 
must recollect that at present, in the eye of the lawy, you are a 
• child, and have no right to interfere with anything— neither parish, 
nor estate, nor even house.” 

*‘ But it is all mine, Uncle Courtenay.” 

” That has nothing to do with it,” said her guardian, promptly. 
“The deer in the park have about as much right to meddle as 
you.” , 

“ Is our park small?” said Kate. “Do you know Sir Herbert 
Eldridge, Uncle Courtenay? VYheie does he live? — and has he a 
very fine place? 1 can’t believe that there are five hundred acres in 
his park; and 1 don’t know how many there are in ours. 1 don’t 
understand measuring one’s own places. What does it matter an 
acre or two? 1 am sure there is no park so nice as Langton-Courte- 
nay under the sun.” 

“ What is all this about parks? You take away my breath,’’ 
said jVIf. Courtenay, in dismay. 

“ Oh, nothing,” said Kate; “ only that 1 heard a person say — 
when 1 was out last night I met one of the rectory people. Uncle 
Courtenay— it is partly for that 1 want to go— his sister, he says, is 
the same age as 1—” 

“ His sister! — it was a he, then?” said Mr. Courtenay, with that 
prompt suspiciousness which is natural to the guardian of an 
heiress. 

“ It was Bertie, the second son — of course it was a he. A girl 
could not have jumped over the fence — one might scramble, you 
know, but one couldn’t jump it with one’s petticoats. He told me 
one or two things— about his family.” 

“ But why did he jump over the fence? And what do you know 
about him? Do you talk to everybody that comes in your way — 
about his family?” cried Mr. Courtenay, with returning dismay. 

“ Of course 1 do. Uncle Courtenay,” said Kate, looking full at 
him. “ You may say 1 have no right to interfere, but 1 have al- 
ways known that Langtou was to be mine, and 1 have always taken 
an interest in— everybody. Why, it was my duty. What else 
could 1 do?” 

“1 should prefer that you did almost anytliing else,” said Mr. 
Courtenay, hastily; and then he stopped short, feeling that it was 


OMBRA. 


29 


incautious to betray his reasons, or suggest to the lively imagina- 
tion of this perverse young woman that there was danger in Bertie 
Hardwick and his talk. “ The dangers self were lure alone,” he 
said to himself, and plunged, in his dismay, into another subject. 
“ Ho you remember what 1 said to you last night about your Aunt 
Anderson?” he said. ” Shouldn’t you like to go and see het,^ 
Kate? She has a daughter of your own age, an only child. They 
have been abroad all their lives, and, 1 dare say, speak a dozen lan- 
guages— that sort of people generally do. 1 think it would be aright 
thing to visit her—” 

“If it would be a right thing to visit her. Uncle Courtenay, it* 
would be still righter to ask her to come here.” 

“ But that 1 foibid, my dear,” said the old man. 

Then there was a pause. Kate was greatly tempted to lose her 
temper, but, on the whole, experience taught her that losing one’s 
temper seldom does much good, and she restrained herself. She 
tried a difierent mode of attack. 

“Uncle Courtenay,” she said, pathetically, “is it because you 
don’t want any one to love me that nobody is ever allowed to st^y 
here?” 

“ When you are older, Kate, you will see what 1 mean,” said Mr. 
Courtenay. “ I don’t wish you to enter the wrorld with any yoke 
on your neck. 1 m.ean you to be free. You will thank me after- 
ward, when you see how you hav^een saved from a tribe of 
locusts — from a household of dependents — ” 

Kate stopped and gazed at him with a curious semi- comprehen- 
sion. She put her head a little on one side, and looked up to him 
with her bright eyes. “ Dependents!” she said — “ dependents, un- 
cle? Miss Blank tells me 1 have a great nmber of dependents, but 
1 am sure they don’t care for me.” 

“ They never do,” said Mr. Courtenay— this was, he thought,, 
the one grand experience which he had won from life. 


CHAPIER V. 

Bertie Hardwick was on the lawn in front of the rectory 
when the two visitors approached. The rectory was a pretty, old- 
lashioned house, large and quaint, with old picturesque wings and 
gables, and a front much covered with climbing plants. Kale had 
always been rather proud cf it, as one of the ornaments of the es- 
tate. She looked at it almost as she looked at the pretty west gate 


30 


OMBKA. 


ot her park, where the lodge was so commodious and so pleasant, 
coveted by all the poor people on the estate, it was by Kate’s grace 
and favor that the west lodge was given to one or another, and so 
would it be with the rectory. She looked upon the one in much 
the same light as the other. It would be hard to tell what magnetic 
chord of sympathies had moved Bertie Hardwick to some knowl- 
edge of what his young acquaintance was about to do, but It is cer- 
lain that he was there, pretending to play cioquet with his sisters, 
and keeping a very keen eye upon the bit of road which was 
visible through the break in the high laurel hedge. He had been 
amused, and indeed somewhat touched and interested, in spite of 
himself, on the previous night; and somehow he had a feeling that 
she would come. When he caught a glimpse of her he threw down 
the croquet mallet, as if it hurt him, and cried out— Edith, run 
and tell mamma she is coming. 1 felt quite sure she would.” 

” Who is coming?” cried the two girls. 

“Oh, don’t chatter and ask questions— rush and tell mamma!” 
cried Bertie; and he himself, without thinking of it, went forward 
tq open the garden door. It was a trial of Kate’s steadiness to meet 
him thus, but she did so with wide-open eyes and a certain seiious 
courage. “You saw me at a disadvantage, but 1 don’t mind,” 
Kate’s serious eyes were saying; and as she took the matter very 
gravely indeed, it was she who had the best of it now. Bertie, in 
spite cf himself, felt confused as he met her look; he grew red, and 
was ashamed of his own foolish impulse tc go and open the door, 

“This is Bertie Hardwick, uncle,” said Kate, gravely: “and 
this, Mr. Bertie, is my uncle Courtenay— whom 1 told you of,” she 
added, wu’th a little sigh. 

Her uncle Courtenay — whom she was obliged to obey, and over 
whom neither her impetuosity nor her melancholy had the least 
power. She shook her head to herself, as it were, over her sad 
fate, and by this movement placed once more in great danger the 
gravity of poor Bertie, who was afraid to laugh or otherwise mis- 
conduct himself under the eyes of Mr. Courtenay. He led the visit- 
ors into the drawing-rocm, through the open windows, and it is 
impossible to tell what a relief it was to him when he saw his mother 
coming to the rescue. And then they ail sat down: Kate as near 
Mrs. Hardwick as she could manage lo establish herself.' Kate did 
not understand the shyness with which Minnie and Edith, half 
withdrawn on the other side of their mother, looked at her 

“1 am mit a wild beast,” she said to herself. “ 1 wonder do 
they think 1 will bite?” 


OMBEA. 


31 


“ Did you tell them about last night?” she said, turning quickly 
to Bertie; for Mrs. Hardwick, instead of talking to her, the Lady 
ot the Manor, as Kate felt she ought to have done, gave her atten- 
tion to Mr. Courtenay instead^ 

” 1 told them 1 had met you, Miss Courtenay,” said Bertie. 

‘‘And did they laugh? Did you make fun of me? Why do 
they look at me so strangely?” cried Kate, growing red; ‘*1 am 
not a wild beast.” 

‘‘You forget that you and my father have quarreled,” said 
Bertie; ” and the girls naturally take his side.” 

‘‘Oh! is it that?” cried Kate, clearing up a little. She gave a 
quick glance at him, with a misgiving as to whether he was entire- 
ly serious. But Bertie kept his countenance. “ For that matter, 
1 have come to say that X did not mean anything wrong; perhaps X 
made a mistake. Uncle Courtenay says that, till 1 am of age, 1 
have no power; and if the rector pleases — oh! there is the rector — 
1 ought to speak for myself.” 

She rose as Mr. Hardwick came up to her. Her sense of her 
own importance gave a certain dignity to her young figure, which 
was springy and stately, like that of a young Diana. She threw back 
the flood of chestnut hair that streamed over her shoulders, and 
looked straight at him wifh her bright, well-opened eyes. Altogether 
she looked a creature of a different species from Edith and Minnie, 
who kept close together, looking at her with wonder, and a mixture 
of admiration and repugnance. 

‘‘ Isn’t it bold of her to speak to papa like that?” Minnie whis- 
pered to Edith. 

‘‘ But she is going to ask his pardon,” Edith whispered back to 
Minnie. ‘‘ Oh, hush, and hear what she says.” 

As foi Bertie, he looked on with a strange feeling that it was he 
who had introduced this new figure into the domestic circle, and 
with a little anxiety of proprietorship hoped that she would make 
a good impression; IShe was his novelty, his property— and she 
was, there could be no doi^t, a very great novelty indeed. 

, ‘‘Mr. Hardwick, please,” said Kate, reddening, yet confronting 

him with her head very erect, and her eyes very open, ” 1 find that 
1 made a mistake. Uncle Courtenay tells me 1 had no right at my 
age to interfere. 1 shall not be ot age for six years, and don’t you 
think it would be best to be^riendly— till then? If you are willing, 
1 should be glad. 1 thought 1 had a right— but 1 understand now 
that it was all a mistake.” 

Mr. Hardwick looked round upon the company, questioning and 


d2 


OMBKA. 


puzzled. He was a tall man, spare, but of a large frame, with 
deep-set blue eyes looking out of a somewhat brown face. His 
€yes looked like a bit of sky, which had strayed somehow into that 
brown, ruddy frame-wmrk. They were the same color as his son, 
Bertie’s; but Bei lie’s youthful countenance was still white and red, 
and the contrast was not so gieat. The rector’s face was very 
grave when in repose, and its expression had almost daunted Kate, 
but gradually he caught the joke (which W’us intended to be so pro- 
foundly serious) and lighted up. He had loojied at his wife first, 
with a man’s natural instinct, asking an explanation; and perhaps 
the suppressed laughter in Mis. Hardwick’s eyes was what gave 
him the clew. He made the little Lady ot the Manor a profound 
bow. “ Let us understand each other, Miss Courtenay, he said, 
with mock solemnity — “ are we to be friendly only till you come 
of age? Six years is a long time. But if after that hostilities are to 
be resumed — ” 

' ‘ When 1 am of age ot course 1 must do my duty,” said Kale. 

She was so serious, standing there in the midst cf them, grave as 
twenty judges, that nobody could venture to laugh. Uncle Courte- 
nay, who was gelling impatient, and who had no feeling either 
of chivalry or admiration for his troublesome ward, uttered a hasty 
exclamation; but the rector took her hand, and shook it, with a 
smile which at once conciliated his two girls, who were looking on. 

” That is just the feeling you ought to have,” he said. ” 1 see 
We shall be capital friends— 1 mean for six years; and then what- 
ever you see to be your duty— Is it a bargain? 1 am delighted to 
accept these terms.” 

“ And 1 am very glad,” said Kate, sedately. She sat down 
again when he released her hand— giving her head a little shake, as 
was customary with her, and looked round with a certain majestic 
composure on the little assembly. As for Bertie, though he could 
not conceal from himself the tact that his father and mother 'svere 
much amused, he still felt very proud of his young lady. He went 
up to her, and stood behind her chair, made signs Ic his mother 
that she w’as to talk; which Mrs. Hardwick did to such good pur- 
pose that Kate, who w^anted little encouragement, and to wLom a 
friendly face w^as swmet, soon stood fully self-revealed lo her new 
acquaintances. They look her out upon the lawn, and instructed 
her in croquet, and grew familiar wflh her; and, before half an 
hour had passed, Minnie and Edith, one on each side, were hang- 
ing about her, half in amazement, half in admiration. She was 
younger than both, lor even Minnie, the little one, was sixteen: but 


OMBKA. 


33 


then neither ot them was a great lady— neither the head and. mis- 
tress of her own house. 

“ Isn’t it dreadfully dreary lor 5 ^ou to live in that grot house all 
hy yourself?” said Edith. They were so continually together, and 
so apt to take up each other’s sentiments, one repeating and con- 
tinuing what the other had said, that they could scarcely get 
through a question except jointly. Bo that Minnie now added her 
voice, running into her sister’s. “ It must be so dull, unless your 
governess is very nice, indeed,” 

“My governess — Miss iilank?” said Kate. “ 1 never thought 
whether she was nice or not. 1 have had so many. One comes 
lor a year, and then another, and then another. 1 never could 
make cut why they liked to change so often. Uncle Courtenay 
thinks it is best.” 

“Oh! our governess stayed for years and years,” said Edith; 
added Minnie, “ We were nearly as fond of her as of mamma.” 

“But then 1 suppose,” said Kate, with a little sigh, “ she was 
lond of you?” 

“ Why, of course,” cried the two girls together. “ How could 
she help it, when she had known us all our lives?” 

“ You think a great deal ol yourselves,” said Kate, with dreary 
scorn, “ to think people must be fond of you! If you were like 
me you would know better. 1 never fancy anything ot the kind. 
If they do what ] tell them, that is all 1 ask. You are very differ- 
ent frons me. You have father, and mother*, and brothers, and all 
sorts of things. But I have nobody, except Uncle Courtenay— and 
1 am sure 1 should be very glad to make you a present of him.” 

“ Have you not evetf an aunt?” said Minnie, with big round eyes 
of wonder. “ Nor a cousin?” said Edith, equally surprised. 

“ No— that is, oh! yes, 1 have one of each— Uncle Courtenay 
was talking ot them as we came here— but 1 never saw them. I 
don’t know anything about them,” said Kate. 

“ What curious people, not to come to see you!” “ And what 
a pity you don t know themf’ said the sisters. 

“ And how curiously you talk,*^’ said uncompromising Rate; 
“ botli together. Please, is there only one of 3 "ou, 6r are there two 
of you? i suppose it is talking in the same voice, and being dressed 
alike.” 

“ We are considered alike,” said Edith, the eldest, with an atr of 
suppressed offense. As for Minnie, she was too indignant to make 
any reply. 

“And so you are al ke,” said Kate; “and a little like your 


34 


OMBRA, 


brother, too; but he speaks for himself, I dou^t object to people 
being alike; but 1 should try very hard to make you talk like two 
people, not like one, and not always to hang together and dress the 
same, if you were with me.” 

Upon this there was a dead pause. The rectory girls were good 
girls, but net quite prepared to stand an assault like this. Minnie, 
who had a quick temper, and who had been taught that it was in- 
dispensable to keep it down, shut her lips tight, and resisted the’ 
temptation to be angry. Edith, who was more placid, gazed at the 
young censor with wonder. What a strange girll 

“Because,” said Kate, endeavoring to be explanatory, “your 
voices have just the same sound, and you are Just the same height,, 
and your blue frocks aie even made the same. Are there so many 
girls in the world,” she said suddenly, with a pensive appeal to^ 
human nature in general, “ that people can afford to throw them 
away, and make two into one?” 

Deep silence fcllowed. Mrs. Hardwick had been called away, 
and Bertie was talking to the gardener at the other end of the lawn.. 
This was the first unfortunate result of leaving the girls to them- 
sleves. They walked on a little, the two sisters falling, a step be- 
hind in their discomfiture. “ How daie she speak to us so?” Min- 
nie whispered through her teeth. “ Dare 1— -she is our guest !” said. 
Edith, who had a high sense of decorum. A minute after, Kate-, 
perceived that something was amiss. She turned round upon them,, 
and gazed into their faces with serious scrutiny. “ Are you 
angry?” she said— “ have 1 said anything wrong?” 

“Oh! not angry,” said Edith. “ X suppose,, since you loofc 
surprised, you don’t — mean— any harm.” 

“ 1? —mean harm — Oh! Mr. Bertie,” cried Kate, “come here 
quick — quick! — and explain to them. You kaow me. What have 
1 done to make them angry? One may surely say what one thinks.” 

“ Jt don’t know that it is good to say all one thinks,” said Edith, 
who taught in the Sunday-schools, and who was considered very 
thoughtful and judicious—” at least, when it is likely to huit other 
people’s feelings.” 

“ Not when iUis true?” said the remcrseless Kate. 

And then the whole group came to a pause, Bertie standing open- 
mouthed, most anxious to preserve the peace, but not knowing: 
how. It was the judicious Edith who brought the crisis to a close 
by acting upon one of the maxims with which she was familiar 
a teacher of youth. 

“ Should you like to walk round the garden?” she said, chang;- 


OMBRA. 


3o 


log tliG subject with an adroitness which was very satisfactory to 
lierself, or come back into the diawing-room? There is not 
much to see in gut little place, alter your beautiful gardens at 
jLangton-Courtenay; but still, if you would like to walk round — or 
perhaps you would prefer to go in and join mamma?” 

” My uncle must be ready to go now,” said Kate, with respons- 
ive quickness, and she stalked in before them through the open 
window. As good luck would have it, Mr. Courtenay was just ris- 
ing to take his leave. Kate followed him out, much subdued, in 
one sense, though all in arms in another. The girls were not 
nearly so nice as she thought they would be— reality was not equal 
to anticipation— and to think they should have quarreled with her 
the very first time for nothing! This was the view of the matter 
ivhich occurred to Kate, 


CHAPTER Yl. 

1 CAN 'NOT undertake to say how it was, but it is certain that 
Bertie Hardwick met Kate next day, as she took her walk into the 
•village, accompanied by Miss Blank. At the sight of him, that 
lady's countenance clouded over; but Kate was glad, and the 
young man look no notice of Miss Blank’s looks. As it happened 
the conversation between the governess and her pupil had flagged 
— it often flagged. The conversation between Kate and Miss Blank 
•consisted generally of a host of bewildering questions on the one 
side, and as few answers as could be managed on the other. Miss 
Blank no doubt had aflairs of her own to think of ; and then Kate’s 
questions were of everything in heaven and earth, and might have 
troubled even a wise counselor. Mr. Courtenay was still at Lang- 
ton, but had sent out his niece for her usual walk — a thing by which 
she felt humiliated — and she had met with a rebut? in the village 
in consequence of some interference. She was in low spirits, and 
Miss Blank did not mind. Accordingly, Bertie was a relief and 
comfort to her, more than c^n be described. 

“ Why don’t your sisters like me?” said Kate. ”1 wonder, 
Mr. Bertie, why people don’t like me? If they would let me, I 
should like to be friends, but you saw they would not.” 

*■ 1 don’t think — perhaps— that they quite understood—” 

’* But it is sc easy to understand,’' said Kate, with a little impa- 
tient sigh. 'She shook her head, and tossed hack her shining hair, 
which made an aureole round her. ” Don’t let us speak of it,” she 
saidj but you understood from the very first.” 


36 


OMBRA. 


Bertie was pleased, he could not have told why. The fact was;, 
he, too, had been extremely puzzled at first; but now, after three 
meetings, he felt himself an old friend and pri7ileged interpreter 
of the strange girl whom his sisters were so indignant with, and whcf 
certainly was a more important personage at Langton-Courtenay 
than any other fit teen- year -old girl in England. Both Mr. Hard- 
wick and Bertie had to some extent made themselves Kate’s cham- 
pions, moved thereto by that strange predisposition to take the side 
of a feminine stranger (at least, when she is young and pleasant) 
against the women of their own house, which almost all men are 
moved by. Women take their lather’s, their husband’s, their 
brother’s side through thick and thin, with a natural certainty thafe 
their own must he in the right; but men invariably take it for 
granted that their own must be wu’ong. Thus, not only Bertie,, 
who might be moved by other arguments, but even Mr. Hardwick, 
secretly believed that “ the girls ” had taken offense foolishly, and 
maintained the cause of Kate. 

They have seen nothing out of their own sphere,” their brother 
said, apologetically — ” they don’t know much — they are very muck 
petted and spoiled at home.” 

” Ah!” said Kate, feeling as it ohiWy douche had suddenly been 
administered in her face. She drew a long, half-sobbing breath,, 
and then she said, with a pathetic tone In her voice, “Oh! 1 won- 
der why people don’t like mer” 

” You are wrong, Miss Courtenay— 1 am sure you are wrong, 
said Bertie, warmly. ” Not like you!— that must be their stupid- 
ity alone. And 1 can’t believe, even, that any one is so stupid. 
You must be making a mistake.” 

“ Oh! jMr. Beilie, how can you say so? Why, your sisters!”' 
cried Kate, leturning to the charge. 

“But it is not that they — don’t like you,” said Beitie. “How 
could you think it? It is only a misunderstanding— a — a want of 
knowing — ” 

“ Y'oii are trying to save my feelings,” said Kale; “but never 
mind my feelings. No, Mr. Bertie, it is quite true. 1 do not want 
to deceive myself-rpeople do not like me.” These w^ords she pro- 
duced singly, as if they had been so many stones thrown at the 
world. “ Ub! please don’t say anything— perhaps it is my fate; 
perhaps 1 am never to be any better. But that is how' it is— people 
don’t lik(3 me; 1 am sure 1 don't know why.” 

“ Miss Courtenay— ” Bertie began, wdth great earnestness; but 
just tlieu the man of all work from the rectory, who was butler 


OMBRA. 


3f 


and footman, and valet, and everything combined, made his ap- 
nearance at the corner, beckoning to hini; and as the servant waa 
sent by his father, he had no alternative bat to go asvay. When he 
was out of sight, Kate, whose eyes had followed him as far as he 
was visible, breathed forth a gentle sish, and was going on quietly 
upon her way, silent, until the mood should seize her to chatter 
once more, when an event occurred that had never been known till 
now to happen at Langton — the governess, who was generally 
blank as her name, opened her mouth and spoke. 

“ JMiss Courtenay,'' she said, for she was. not even sufficiently- 
interested in her pupil to care to speak to her by her Christian name 
— “ Miss Courtenay, if this sort of thing continues, 1 shall have to 
go away." 

Kate, who was not much less startled than Balaam was on a 
similar occasion, stopped short, and turned round with , a face of 
consternation upon her companion. " If what continues?" she 
said. 

"This," said Miss Blank— " this meeting of young men, and 
walking with them. It is hard enough to have to manage ym; but 
if this goes on, 1 shall speak to Mr. Courtenay. 1 never was com- 
promised before, and 1 don't mean to be so now." 

Kate was so utterly unconscious of the meaning of all this, that she 
simply stared in dismay. " Compromised?" she said, with big eyes 
of astonishment; " 1 don't know what you mean. What is it that 
must not go on? Miss Blank, 1 hope you have not had a sun- 
stroke, or something that makes people talk without knowing what 
they Bay." 

" 1 will not take any impertinence from you, Miss Courtenay," 
said Miss Blaniv, going red with wrath. " Ask why people don’t 
like you, indeed!— you should ask me, instead of asking a gentle- 
man, fishing for compliments! Til tell you why people don't like 
you. It is because you are always interfering — tliiusling j^ourself 
into things you have no business with — taking things upon you 
that no child has a right to meddle with. That is why people liate 
you—" 

" Hate me!" ciied Kate, who, for her part, had grown pale with 
honor. 

" Yes, hate you— that is the word. Do you think any one 
would put up with such a life who could help it? You are an 
heiress, and people are obliged to mind you; but if you had been a 
poor girl, you would have known the difference. Nobody would 
have put up with you then; you would have been beaten, or 


•38 


OMBEA. 


Starved, or done something to. It is only your money that gives 
you the power to trample others under your feet.*’ 

Kate was appalled by this address. It stupefied her, in the first 
place, that Miss Blank should have taken the initiative, and 
launched forth into speech, as it were, on her own account; and 
the assault took away the girl’s breath. IShe felt as one might feel 
who had been suddenly saluted with a showei of blows fi Oman 
utterly unsuspected adversary. She did not know whether to fight 
or flee. She walked along mechanically by her assailant’s side, and 
gasped for breath. Her eyes grew large and round with wonder. 
Bhe listened in amaze, not able to believe her ears. 

“ But 1 won’t be kept quiet any longer,*’ said Miss Blank — “ I 
will speak. Why should 1 gei myself into trouble for you? 1 will 
go to Mi. Courtenay, when we get back, and 1 will tell him it is 
impossible to go on like this. It was bad enough before. You 
Were trouble enough from the first day 1 ever set eyes on you; but 
1 have always said to myself, when that commences, 1 will go away. 
My character is above everything, and all the gold in England 
would not tempt me to stay,** 

Kate listened to all this with a bewilderment that took from her 
the power of speech. vYhat did the woman mean? — was she “ in a 
passion,” as, indeed, other governesses, to Kate’s knowledge, had 
Tbeeu; or was she mad? It must be a sunstroke, she decided at 
last. They had been walking in the sun, and Miss Blank’s bonnet 
was too thin, being made of flimsy tulle. Her brain must be af- 
fected. Kate resolved hefoically that she would not aggravate the 
suiTerer by any response, hut would send for the housekeeper as 
soon as they got back, and place Miss Blank in her hands. People 
in her sad condition must not be contradicted. She quickened her 
st(‘ps, discussing with herself whether a dark room and ice to the 
f Orel lead would be enough, or whether it would be necessary to cut 
cfi all hei hair, or even shave her head. This preoccupation about 
Miss Blank's welfare shielded the girl for some time against the 
fiery, slinging arrows which were being thrown at her; but this 
immunity did not last, for the way was long, and Miss Blank, hav- 
ing once broken out, put no further restraint upon herself.. It was 
<;lear now that her only hope was in laying Kate prostrate, leaving 
jro spirit nor power of resistance in her. By degrees the sharp 
wmrds began to get admittance at the girl’s tingling ears. She was 
beaten down by the storm of opposition. Was it possible? — could 
dt be tiue? Did people hate her? Her imagination began Id work 
.as these burning missiles fli w nt her. Miss Blank had been her 


OMBKA. 


39 '^ 

companion for a year, and haled her! Uncle Courtenay washer 
own uncle— her nearest relative— and he, too, hated hei ! The girls 
at the rectory, who looked so gentle, had turned against her. Ohl 
why, why was it? By degrees a profound discouragement seized 
upon the poor child. Miss Blank was eloquent, she had a flow oh 
words such as had never come to her before. She poured forth 
torrents cf bitterness as she walked, and Kate was beaten down by 
the storm. By the time they reached home she had forgotten all 
about the sunstroke, andy shaving Miss Blank’s head, and thought 
of nothing but getting tree — getting into the silence — being^ alone.. 
Maryanne put a letter into her hand as she ran upstairs; but w^hat 
did she care for a letter! Everybody hated her — if it were not that 
she was an heiress everybody would abandon her — and she had not 
one friend to go to, no one whon; she could ask to help her in all 
the dreary world. She was too far gone for weeping. She sat dowa 
before her dressing-table and looked into the glass with miserable,, 
dilated ej^es. “lam just like other people!” Kate said to herself; 
“ there is no mark upon me. Cam was marked; hut that was be- 
cause he was a murderer ; and 1 never killed anybody, 1 never did 
any harm to anybody, that 1 know of. 1 am only just a girl, like 
other girls. Oh! 1 suppose 1 am dreadfully wicked! But then, 
everybody is wielded — the Bible says so; and how am 1 worse than 
all the rest? 1 don’t hate any one,” said Kate, aloud, and very 
slowly. Her poor little mouth quivered, her eyes filled, and right 
upon the letter upon her table there fell one great blob of a tear. 
This roused her in the midst of her distress. To Kate — as to every 
human being of her age— it seemed possible that something new, 
something wonderful, might be in any letter.* Hhe took it up and 
tore it open. She w^as longing for comfort, longing for kindness,, 
as she had never done in her life. 

The letter which we are about, to transcribe was not a very wise 
one, perhaps not even altogether to be sworn by as true — but it 
opened an entire new wmrld to poor Kate. 

“ My dearest unknow^n darling Niece,— You can’t remem- 
ber me, tor 1 have never seen you since you were a tiny, tiny baby 
in long clothes; and you have had nobody about you to remind 
you that you had any relations on your mother’s side. You have 
never answered my letters even, dear, though 1 don’t for a moment 
blame you, or suppose it is your fault. But now 1 am in England, 
darling, we must not allow ourselves to be divided by unfortunate 
feelings that may exist between diflerent sides of the family. 1 
must see you, my dear only sister^’s only darling child! 1 have but 
one child, too, my Ombra, and she is as anxious as 1 am. 1 have 


40 


OMBRA. 


'Written to your guardian, asking if he will let you come and see us. 
1 do not wish to go to your grand house, which was always thought 
too fine for us, but 1 must see you, my darling child; and if Mr. 
Courtenay will not let you come to us, my Ombra and 1 will come 
to Langton-Courtenay, to the village, where we shall no doubt 
find lo(tgings somewhere — 1 don’t mind how humble they are, so 
long as 1 can see you. My heart yearns to take you in my arms, 
tc give you a hundred kisses, my own niece, my dear motherless 
child. Send me one* lit tie word by your own hand, and don’t reject 
the love that is oftered you, my dearest Kate. Ombia sends you 
her dear love, and thinks of you, not as a cousin, but as a sister; 
and I, who have the best right, long for nothing so much as to be 
a mother to you! Come to us, my sweet child, if your uncle will 
let you; but, in the meantime, write to me, that 1 may know you a 
little even before we meet. Willi warmest love, my darling niece, 
:your most affectionate aunt, and, it you will let her be so. mother, 

“Jane Anderson 

!Now poor Kate had only two or three times in her whole life re- 
ceived a letter before. Since, as she said, she had “ grown up,” she 
had not heard from her aunt, who had written her, she recollect- 
ed, one or two baby epistles, printed in large letters, in her child- 
hood. fler poor little soul was still convulsed with the first great, 
open undisguised shock of unkindntss, when this other g^eat event 
came upon her It was also a shock in its way. It made such a 
tempest in her being as conflicting winds make out at sea. The 
one had driven her down to the depths, the other dashed her up, 
up to a dizzy height. She fell dazed, insensible, proud, tiiumphant, 
and happy, ail at once. Here was somebody of her own, some- 
body of her very own — something like the mother at the rectory. 
Something near, close, certain— her own! 

She dashed the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief, seized 
upon her letter, her dear letter, and rushed down-stairs to the li- 
brary, where Uncle Courtenay sat in stale, the judge, and final 
tribunal for alt appeals. 


CHAPTER Vll. 

Mr. Courtenay ^as in the library at Langton, tranquilly pur- 
suing some part of the business which had brought him thither, 
when Miss Blank and her charge returned from theii walk, llis 
chief object, it is true, in this visit to the bouse of bis fathers, had 
been tc look after his ward; but there had been other business to 
<lo— leases to renew, timber to cut down, cottages to build, a mul- 
tiplicity of small matters, which required his personal attention. 


OMBKA. 


41 


These were straightforward, and did ncd trouble him as the others^ 
did; and the fact was that he felt much relieved by the absence of 
the 5 'oung feminine problem, which itAvAS so hard upon him, at his 
age, and with his habits, to be burdened with. He had dismissed 
her even out of his mind, and was getting through the less diflicult 
matters steadily, with a grateful sense that here at least he had noth- 
ing in hand that was beyond his power. It was shady in the 
Langton library, cool, and very quiet; whereas outside there was 
one blaze of sunshine, and the day was hot. Mr. Courtenay was 
comfoitable—perhaps for the first time since his arrival. He was 
satisfied with his present occupation, and for the moment had dis- 
missed his other cares. 

This was the pleasant position of affairs when Miss Blank 
lushed in upon him, with indignation in her countenance. There 
was something more than indignation— there was the flush of heat 
produced by her walk, and her unusual outburst of temper, and 
the dust, and a little dishevelment inseparable from wrath. She 
scarcely took time to knock at the door. She was a person who 
had been recommended to him as imperturbable in temper and 
languid in disposition — the last in the world to make any fuss; con- 
sequently he stared upon her now with absolute consternation, and 
even a little alarm. 

“ Compose yourself. Miss Blank — take time to speak. Has any- 
thing happened to Kate?’' 

He w^as quite capable of hearing w^ith composure anything that 
might have happened to Kate— anything short of positive injury, 
indeed, which would have freed him of her, would have been tid- 
ings of joy. 

“1 have come to sa}^ sir,’’ said Miss Blank, “that there are 
some things a lady can not be expected to put up with, i have 
always felt the time must come when 1 could not put up with Miss 
Courtenay. I am not an ill-tempered person, 1 hope—” 

“ Quite the reverse, 1 have always heard,” said Mr. Courtenay, 
politely, but with a sigb. 

“ Thank you, sir. 1 believe 1 have always been considered to 
have a good temper; but 1 have said to myself, since ever 1 came 
here; ‘ Miss Courtenay is bad enough now — she is trial enough to 
any lady’s feelings now.’ 1 am sorry to have to say it if it hurts 
your feelings, Mr. Courtenay, but your niece is— she is— it is really 
almost impossible for a lady wlio has a respect for herself, and docs 
not wish to be hurried into exhibitions of temper, to say what Miss. 
Kate is.” 


42 


OMBRA. 


“ Pray ccmpcse yourself, Miss Blank. Take a seat. From my 
own observation,’' slid Mr. Courtenay, “1 am aware my niece 
must be trbublesome at times.” 

“Troublesome!” said Miss Blank — “at times! That shows, 
sir, how little you know. About her trouolesomeness 1 can’t trust 
myself to speak; nor is it necessary at the present moment. But 1 
have always said to myself, ‘ When that time comes, 1 will go at 
once.’ And it appears to me, Mr. Courtenay, that though prema- 
ture, that time has come.” 

“ What time, for Heaven’s sake?” said the perplexed guardian. 

“ Mr. Courtenay, you know what she is as well as 1 do. It is 
not for any personal reason, though 1 am awaie many people think 
her pretty; but it is not that. She is an heiress, she will have a 
nice property, and a great deal of money, therefore it is quite nat- 
ural that it should be premature.” 

“ Miss Blank, you would do me an infinite favor if you would 
speak plainly. What is it that is premature?” 

Miss Blank had taken a seat, and she had loosed the strings of 
her bonnet. Her ideas of decorum had indeed been sn far over- 
come by her excitement, that even under Mr. Courtenay’s eye she 
had begun to fan herself with her handkerchief. She made a pause 
in this occupation, and pressed her handkerchief to her face, as ex 
pressive of confusion; and from the ether side of this shield she 
answered, “ Oh! that 1 should have to speak to a e:entleinan of 
such things! If you demand a distinct answer, 1 must tell yon. It 
is lomrs, Mr. Courtenay.” 

“Lovers!” he said, involuntarily, with a laugh of relief. 

“ You may laugh, but it is no laughing matter,” said Miss 
Blank. “ Oh! it you had known, as 1 do by experience, what it is 
to manage girls! Do you know what a girl is, Mr. Courtenay? 
the most aggravating, trying, unmanageable, untamable--” 

“ My dear Miss Blank,” said Mr. Courtenay, seriously, “ 1 pre- 
sume that you were once one of these untamable creatures your- 
self.” 

“ Ah!’’ said the governess, with a long-drawn breath. It had not 
occurred to her, and, curiously enough, now that it w’as suggested, 
the idea seemed rather to flatter than otherwise. She shcok her 
head; but she was softened. “ Perhaps 1 should not have said all 
girls,” she resumed. “ 1 was very strictly brought up, and never 
allowed to take such folly into my head. But to return to our 
subject, Mr. Courtenay. 1 must beg your attention to this— it has 
been my principle through life, 1 have never departed from it yet. 


OMBRA. 


43 


and 1 can not now. When lovers appear, 1 have always made it 
known among my triends — 1 go.” 

“ I have no doubt it is an admirable principle,” said Mi. Courte- 
nay. ‘‘But in the present case let us come to particulars. Who- 
are the lovers?” 

“One ot the young gentlemen at the rectory,” answered Miss 
Blank, promptly; and then for the first time she telt that she had 
profiuced an eftect. 

Mr. Courtenay made no reply— he put down his pen, which he 
had been holding all this lime in his hand; his face clouded over; 
he pushed his paper away trcm him, and puckered his lips and his^ 
forehead. This time, without doubt, she had produced an eftect. 

“1 must beg you accordingly, Mr. Courtenay, to accept my 
resignation,” said Miss Blank. “ 1 have always kept up a good 
connection, and never suftered myself to be compromised, and I 
don’t mean to begin now. This day month, sir, it you please— if 
in the meantime you are suited with another lady in my place — ” 

“Miss Blank, don’t you think this is something like forsaldng^ 
your post? Is it not ungenerous to desert my niece when she has 
so much need of your protection? Do yon not feel — ” Mi. 
Courtenay had commenced, unawares. 

“ Sir,” said Miss Blank, with dignity, “ when 1 was engaged, it 
was specially agreed that (his was to be no matter of feelings. 1 
have specially watched over my feelings, that they might not get 
any way involved. 1 am sure you must recollect the terms of my 
engagement as well as 1.” 

Mr. Courtenay did recollect them, and felt he had made a false 
step; and then the dirflculiies ot his position rushed upon his be- 
wildered sight. He did not know girls as Miss Blank did, who had 
spent many a vreary year in wrestling with them; but he knew 
enough to understand that, if a girl in her natural state w^as hard 
to manage, a girl with a lover must be worse. And what was he 
to do it left alone, and unaided, to rule and quiet such an appalling-^ 
creature? He drew in his lips, and contracted his forehead, untif 
his face was about half its usual size. It gave him a little relief < 
when the idea suddenly struck him that Miss Blank’s hypothesis 
might not be built on sufficient foundation. W’ omen were always 
thinking of lovers— or, at least, not knowing anything precisely 
about women, so Mr. Courtenay had heard. 

“ Let us hope, at least,” he said, “ that j^our alarming suggestion 
has been hastily made. Will you tell me what foundation you have 


44 


OMBEA. 


for connecting Kate’s name with — with anything of the kind? 
-She is only fifteen— she is not old enough.” 

“ 1 thought 1 h^jcl said distinctly, Mr. Courtenay, lhai 1 con- 
sidered it to be premature?” 

” Yes, yes, certainly — you said so — but — Perhaps, Miss Blank, 
you will kindly favor me with the facts — ” 

At this point another hurried knock came to the door. And 
once more, without waiting for an answer, Kate, all tears and 
trouble, her face flushed like Miss' Blank's, her hair astray, and 
an open letter in her hand, came rushing into the room. Two 
agitated female creatures in one hour, rushing into the private 
sanctuary of the most particular of bachelors! Mi. Courtenay 
commended her, though she was his nearest relation, to all the in- 
fernal gods. 

” VVhat is the matter now?” he cried, sharply. “ Why do you 
burst in uninvited when I am busy? Kate, you seem to be trying 
every way to irritate and annoy me. What is it now?” 

Uncle,” cried Kate, breathlessly, “I have just got a letter, 
and 1 want to ask yen— never mind her! may 1 go to my aunt 
Anderson’s? ?he is willing to have me, and it will save you heaps 
of trouble! Oh, please. Uncle Courtenay, please never mind anj^- 
Ihing else! May 1 go?” 

“ May you go— to your aunt Anderson? Why, here is certainly 
a new arrangement of the board!” said Mr. Courtenay. He said 
the last words mockingly, and he fixed his eyes on Kate as if she 
had been a natural curiosity— which, indeed, in a great degree, 
she was to him. 

“ Y'es — to my aunt Anderson. You spoke of her yourself — you 
know you did. Y^ou said she must not come here; and she does 
not want to come here. 1 don’t think she would come if she was 
asked; but she says 1 am to go to her. Uncle Courtenay, in a 
little while 1 shall be able to do what 1 like, and go where 1 
like-” 

” Not for six years, my dear,” said Mr. Courtenay, with a smile. 

Kate stamped her toot in her passion. 

” If 1 were to write to the lord chancellor, 1 am sure he would 
let me!” she cried. 

” But you are not a ward in Chancery— you are my ward,” said 
Mr. Courtena}'', blandly. 

” Then I will run away!” cried Kate, once more stamping hef 
loot. ” ] will not stay here. 1 hate Langton- Courtenay, and every- 


OMBEA. 


45 


l)ody that is unkind, and the people who hate me. 1 (ell you 1 hate 
them. Uncle Courtenay! 1 will run away!’' 

“ 1 don’t doubt it, for one,” said Miss Blank, quietly; “ but with 
whom, Miss Kate, 1 should like to know? 1 dare say your plans 
are all laid.” 

Mr. Courtenay did not see the Xank stare of surprise with which 
Kate, all innocent of the meaning which was conveyed to his ear 
by these words, surve 3 "ed her adversary. His own better-instructed 
mind was moved by it to positive excitement. Even it Miss Blank 
had been premature in her suggestion, still there could be little 
ck-ubt that lovers were a danger from which Kate could not be 
kept absolutely safe. And there wcie sons at the rectoiy, one of 
whom, a good-looking youn^ fellow of twenty, he had himself seen 
coming forward with a look of delighted recognition. Hanger! 
Why, it was almost more- than danger; it seemed a certainty of 
evil — it not now, why, then, next 3 "ear, or the year after! Mr. 
Courtenay, like most old men of the world, felt an instinctive dis- 
trust of, and repugnance to. parsons. And a young parson was 
proverbially on the outlook for heiresses, and almost considered it 
a duty to provide for himself by marriage. All this ran through 
Ills disturbed mind as these two troublesome feminine personages 
before him waited each for her answer. Confound women! They 
arc more trouble than they are worth, a hundred times over*” the 
old bachelor said to himself. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

Me CotJETENAY was much too true to his instincts, however, to 
^satisfy these two applicants, or to commit himself by any decision 
on (lie spot. He dismissed Miss Blank with the formal courtesy 
which he employed toward his interiors, begging her tc wait until 
to-morrow, when he should have reflected upon the problem she 
had laid before him. And he sent away Kate with much less cere- 
mony, bidding her hold her tengue, and leave the room and leave 
things alone which she did not understand. He would not listen to 
the angry response which rose to her lips; and Kate had a melan- 
choly night in consequence, aggravated by the miserable sensation 
that she had been snubbed in presence of Miss Blank, who was 
quite ready to take advantage of her discomfiture. When Kate's 
guardian, however, was left alone to think, it is probaoie that his 
own reflections were not delightful. He was not a man apt tc lake 


46 


OMBRA. 


himself to task, nor give way to selt-examinaticn„ but still it was 
sufficiently apparent to him that his plan had not succeeded as he 
had hoped in Kate’s case. What he had hoped for had been to 
produce a quiet, calm girl, who would do what she was told^ whose 
expectations and wishes would be on a subdued scale, and who 
would be reasonable enough to feel that his judgment was supreme 
in all matteiB. Almost all men at one time or another oi theii lives 
entertain the idea of “ molding ” a model woman. Mr. Courte- 
nay’s ideal was not high — all he wanted was submissiveness, man- 
ageableness, quiet manners, and a toial absence of the sentimental 
and emotional. The girl might have been permitted to be clever,, 
to be a good musician, or a good artist, or a great student, if she 
chose, though such peculiarities always detract more or less from 
the air of good society which ought to distinguish a lady* but still 
Mr. Courtenay prided himself upon being tolerant, and he would 
not have interfered in such a case. But that this ward of his, this 
representative of his family should choose to be an individual being 
with a very strong will and marked characteristics of her own, ex- 
asperated the old man of the world. “ Most women have no char- 
acter at all,” he repeated to himself, raising his eyebrows in a won- 
dering appeal to Providence. Had the happy period, when that 
aphorism was true, departed along with all the other manifestations 
cf the age of Gold? — or was it still true, and was it the fault of 
Providence, to punish him for his sins that his share of womankind 
should be so perverse? This was a question which it was difficult 
to make out; but he was rather incline'd to chafe at Providence, 
which really does interfere so unjustifiably often, when things would 
go very well if they were left to themselves. The longer he thought 
of it the more disgusted did he become — at once with Miss Blank and 
with her charge. What a cold-hearted wretch the woman must be! 
How strange that he should not at least “ take an interest in the 
gill! To be sure he had made it a special point in her engagement 
that she should not take an interest. He r\as right in doing so, he 
felt sure; but, still, here was an unforeseen crisis, at which it would 
have been very important to have lighted on some one who would 
not be liound by a mere bargain. The girl was an unmanageable 
little fool, determined to have her own way at all risks; and the 
law would not permit him to shut her up, and keep her in the ab- 
solute subjection of a prison. She must have every advantage, 
forsooth— freedom and society, and Heaven knows what besides; 
education as much as if she were going to earn her living as a 
governess; and even that crowning horror, lovers, when the time: 


OMBKA. 


47 


came. A es. theie was no law in the realm torbidclinf? an heiress to 
have lovers. Miss Blank might resign, not wishing to compromise 
herself; but he, the unhappy guardian, could not resign. It was not 
illegal for a young man to speak to Kale — any idle lellow, with 
an introduction, might chatter to her, and drive her protectors fran- 
tic, and yet could not be put ii^o prison for it. And there could be 
little doubt that, sitnplj^ to spite her guardian, after she had worried 
him to death in every other way. she would fall in love. She 
would do it, as sure as fate; and even if she met with opposition 
■she was a girl quite capable of eloping with her lover, giving un- 
bounded trouble, and probably thoiving some lasting stigma on her- 
self and her name. It was premature, as Miss Blank said, but Miss 
Blank was a person of experience, learned in the ways of girls, and 
doubtless knew what she was saying She bad declined to have 
anything further to do with Kate; she had declared her own sway 
and lovers ” to he quite incompatible. But Mr. Courtenay could 
not give a month’s warning, and what was he to do? 

If there was but anybody to be found who would “ take an in- 
terest ” in the girl! This idea flashed unconsciously through his 
mind, and he did not even realize that in wishing tor this, in per- 
ceiving its necessity, he was stultifying all the previous exertions 
cf his guardianship. Theories are all very well, but it is astonish- 
ing how ready men are to drop them in an emergency. Mr. Courte- 
nay was in a dieadful emergency at present, and he prayed to 
bis gods tor some one to “ take an interest ” in this gill. Her 
aunt Anderson! The suggestion was so very convenient, it was so 
clelighi fully ready a way of escape out of his troubles, that he felt 
it necessaiy to pull himself up, and look at it fully. It is not to 
be supp>osed that it was a pleasant or grateful suggestion in itself. 
Had he been in no trouble about Kate he would have at once, and 
■Sternly, declined all invitations (he would have said interference) 
on the pdit of her mother's family. The late Mr. Courtenay had 
made a very foolish marriage, a marriage quite* beneath his posi- 
tion; and the sister of the late Mrs. Courtenay had been discour- 
aged in all her many attempts to see anything of the orphan Kate. 
Fortunately she had not been much in England, and, until the 
present, these attempts had all been made when Kate was a baby. 
Had the young lady of Langton-Courtenay been at all manageable, 
they would have been equally discouraged now. But the very 
name of Mrs. Anderson, at this crisis, breathed across Mr. Courte- 
nay’s tribulations like the sweet south across a bed of violets. It 
was such a temptaiion to him as he did not know how to with•^ 


48 


OMBEA. 


stand. Her mother’s family! They had no right, certainly, to an^ 
share ot the good things, which were entirely on the Co-uittnay 
side; but certainly the 3 M’a(l a right to their share of the trouble. 
This trouble he had borne fortifteen years, and had not murmured. 
OE course, in the very nature of things, it was their turn now. 

jMr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this subject, looking at 
it in all its details. Fortunately there were but tew remnants ot 
her mother’s family. Mrs. Anderson tvas the widow of a consul, 
Who had spent almost all his life abroad. She had a pension, a 
little property, and an only daughter, a little older than Kate.. 
The! 6 were but two of them. If they turned out to be of that 
locust tribe which Mr. Courtenay so feared and hated, they" could 
at least be bought off cheaply, when they had served their purpose. 
The daughter, no doubt, would marry, and the mother could bo 
bought off. Mr. Courtenay did not enier into any discussion with 
himself as to the probabilities of carrying out this scheme of buy- 
^ing off.. At this moment he did not care to dwell upon any diffi- 
culties. In the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, Kato 
herself, to get settled somehow; and anything which might happen 
six years hence was so much less pressing. By that lime a great 
many things unforeseen might have happened; and Mr. Courtenay" 
did not choose to make so long an excursion into the unknown. 
What was he to do with her now? Was bo to be compelled to sta 3 r 
in the country, to give up all his pleasures and comforts, and the 
habits of his life, in order to guard and watch over this girl?— or 
should she be given over, for the time, to the guardianship of her 
mother’s family? This was the real question he had to decide. 

And by degrees he came to think more and more cordially of 
Mrs. Anderson— more cordially, and at the same time, contempt- 
uously. What a fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to take all 
this trouble! Ko doubt slie expected to make hei own ad7antage 
out of it; but Mr. Courtenay, with a grim smile upondiis counte- 
nance, felt that* he himself was quite capable of taking care ot 
that. He might employ her, but he would take care that her de- 
votion should be disinterested. She would be better than a gov- 
erness at this crisis of Kate’s history! She w^ould be a natural 
duenna and inspectress of morals, as well as the superintendent of 
education; and it should, of course, be fully impressed upon her 
that it was tor her interest to discourage lovers, and keep the external 
World at arm's length. The very place of her residence was fa- 
vorable. She had settled in the Isle of Wight, a long way from 
Langton Courtenay, and. happily so far Irom town that it would 


OMBKA. 


4a 


not be possible to run up and down and appeal to him at any mo-, 
ment. He thought ot this all night, and it was the first subject 
that returned to his thoughts in the morning. Mrs. Anderson, or 
unlimited worry, trouble, and annoyance— banishment to the 
“country, severance frcm all delights. Then lei it be Mrs. Anderson! 
he said to himselt, with a sigh. It was hard upon him to have 
such a decision to make, and yet it was satisfactory to feel that he 
had decided for the best. He went dowm to breakfast with a cer- 
tain solemn composure, as of a man who was doing right and mak- 
ing a sacrifice. It would be I he salvation of his personal comfort, 
and to secure that, at all costs, was fundamentally and eternally 
right; but it was a sacrifice at once of pride and of principle, and 
he felt that he had a right to the honors of martyrdom on that 
score. 

After breakfast he called his ward into the library, with a polite 
little speech of apology to Miss Blank. “If you will permit me 
the pleasure of a few words with you at twelve o’clock, 1 think we 
may settle that little matter,” he said, with the greatest suavity; 
leaving upon that lady’s mind the impression that Kate was to be 
bound hand and foot, and delivered over into her hands— which, as 
Miss Blank had no desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort 
of Langton-Uourtenay, was very satisfactory to her; and then he 
withdrew into the library with the victim. 

“ Now,*Kate,” he said, sitting down, 1 am going to speak to 
you very seriously.” 

“You have been doing nothing but speak to me seriously ever 
since you came,” said Kate, pouting. “ 1 wish you would not give 
yourself so much trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All 1 want is just yes 
or no.” 

“ But a great deal depends on the yes or the no. Book here, 
Kate, 1 am willing to let you go— oh! pray don’t clap your hands 
too soon!— 1 am willing to let you go, on conditions, and (he condi- 
tions are rather serious. You had better not decide until you 
hear—” 

“lam sure 1 shall not mind them,” said impetuous Kate, before 
whose eyes there instantly rose up a prospect cf a new world, all 
full of freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind!— she would 
not ha\e minded fire and water to get at an existence which should 
be altogether new. 

“Listen, however,” said Mr. Courtenay. “My conditions are 
very grave. If you go to Mrs. Anderson, Kate — ” 

“ Of course 1 shall go, if you will let me, Uncle Courtenay.” 


50 


03IBEA. 


“ If you go,” said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave of liis hand 
depiecaling interruption, “ it must not be for a visit only — you must 
•go to stay^” 

“ To stay!” 

Kate’s e 3 ^es, which grew round with the strain of wonder, inter- 
est, and excitement, and which kindled, and brightened, and shone, 
reflecting like a mirror the shades of feeling that passed through 
her mind, were a sight to see. 

“If you go,” he continued, ” and it Mrs. Anderson is content 
to receive you, it must be foi the remainder of your minority. 1 
have had a great deal of trouble with your education, and now it 
is just that your mother’s family should take their share. Hear 
me out, Kate. Tour aunt, uf course, should have an allowance 
ior your maintenance, and you could have as many masters and 
governesses, and all the rest, as were necessary; but if 3 ’ou go out 
of my hands, you go not for six weeks, but for six 3 'eais, Kate. ” 

Kate had,been going to speak half a dozen times, but now, hav- 
ing controlled herself so long, she paused with a certain mixture 
of feelings. Her delight was certainly tonejl down. To go and 
come — to be now Queen of Langton, and now her aunt’s amused 
and petted guest, had been her own dream cf felicity. This was 
a different matter, there could be no doubt. It would be the old 
stcry — if not the monotony of Langton, which she knew, the mo- 
notony of Shanklin, which she did not know. Various clouds 
passed over the firmament which had looked so smiling. Perhaps 
it was possible her aunt Andersen and Ombra might not turn out 
desirable companions for six years—perhaps she might rggret her 
native place, her supremacy over the cottagers, whom she some- 
times exasperated. The cloud thickened, dropped lower. Should 
1 never be allowed to come back? not even to see Langton, Uncle 
Courtenay?” she asked in a subdued voice 

” Langton, in that case, ought to be let or shut up.” 

Let!— to other people!— to strangers. Uncle Courtenay"! — our 
Louse!” 

” Well, you foolish child, are we such very sunerior clay that 
we can not let our house? Why, the best people in England do it. 
The L)ukeof Brentford dees it. You have not quite his pretensions, 
and he does not mind.” 

” But 1 have quite his pretensions,” ciied Kate— ” more!— and 
so have you, uncle. What is he more than a gentleman? and we 
are gentlemen, I hope. Besides, a duke has a vulgar sort of 
grandeur with his title — you know he has — and can do what he 


OMBKA. 


51 


pleases; but we must act as gentlefolks. Oh! CJncIe Couitenay,. 
not that!’' 

“ Pshaw!” was all. that Mr. Courtenay replied. He was not open; 
to sentimental considerations, especially when money was con- 
cerned; but, still, he had so much natural prejudice remaining iu 
him for the race and honor of Langton-Courtenay, that he thought 
no worse of his troublesome ward for what she had said. Her 
would of course pay no manner of attention to it; but still, on the' 
whole, he liked her so to speak. 

‘‘ Let us waive the question,” he resumed. ” No, not to Lang- 
ton-Courtenay— 1 don’t choose you should return here, if you quit 
it. But there might be change of air, once a year or so, to other 
places.” 

” Oh! might we go and travel? might we go,” cried Kate, look- 
ing up to him with shining eyes and eager looks, jrnd lips apart,, 
like an angelic petitioner, ” abroad?” 

She said this last word with such a fullness and roundness of 
sound, as it would be impossible, even in capitals, to convey 
through the medium of print. 

“ Well,” he said, with a smile, ” probably that splendor and de- 
light might be permitted to be— if you could afford it off your al- 
lowance,-i)eing always understood.” 

‘‘Oh! of course we could afford it,” said Kate. ” Uncle, 1 con- 
sent at once — 1 will write to iny aunt Anderson at once. 1 wish 
she was not called Anderson— it sounds so common— like the groom 
in the village. Uncle Courtenay, when can 1 start? To-morrow? 
Now, why should you shake your head? 1 have veiy few things 
to pack; and to-morrow is just as good as any other day.” 

‘‘ Quite as good, 1 have no doubt; and so is to-morrow week,” 
said Mr. Courtenay. ” In the first place, you must take till to- 
morrow to decide.” 

” But when 1 have decided already!” said Kate. 

” To morrow at this time bring me your final answer. There, 
now riin away— not another word.” 

Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and for the next twenty- 
four hours did nothing hut plan tours to all the beautiful places 
she had ever heard or read about. Her deliberations as to the 
scheme in general were all swallowed up in this. 1 will take 
them to Switzerland; 1 will take them to Italy. We shall travel 
tour or five months in every year; and see everything and hear 
everything, and enjoy everything,” she said to herself, clapping 
her hands, as it were, under her breath. For she was generous in 


52 * 


OMBRA. 


her way; she was quite clear on the point that it was she who must 
lake ” her aunt and cousin everywhere, and make everything 
agreeable for them. Perhaps there was in this a sense of superior- 
ity which satisfied that craving for power and influence which be- 
longed to her nature; but still, notwithstanding her defective 
education, it was never in Kate’s mind to keep any enjoyment to 
herself. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Before four-and-twenty hours had passed, a certain premoni- 
tion of approaching change had stolen into the air at Langton- 
Courtenay. Miss Blank, too, had been received by Mr. Courtenay 
in a private audience, where, he treated her with the courtesy due 
from one crowned head to another; but, nevertheless, gave her 
fully to understand that her reign was over. This took her all the 
more by surprise, that she had expected quite the reverse, from 
his words and looks in the noorning; and it was perhaps an excla- 
mation which burst from her as she withdrew, amazed and indig- 
nant, to her own room, which beti'a3^ed the possibilities cf the 
future to the household. Miss Blank was not prone to exclama- 
tions, nor to betraying herself in any way; but to have your resig- 
nation blandly accepted, when you expected to be implored, almost 
with tears, to retain 3'’ our post, is an experience likely^ to overcome 
the composure of any one. The exclamation itself was of the 
plainest character — it was, “ Oh! 1 like his politeness—l like that!” 
These words were heard by a passing house-maid; and not only 
were the words heard^, but the flushed cheek, the indignant step, 
the air of injury were noted with all that keenness and intelligence 
which the domestic mind reserves fur the study of the secrets of 
those above them. “ file’s got the sack like the rest,’' was Jane’s 
remark to herself; and she spread it through the house. The in- 
timation produced a mild interest, but no excitement. But when 
late in the afternoon Maryanne came rushing down-stairs, open- 
mouthed, to report some unwar5’- words which had dropped from 
her young mistress, the feelings of the household acquired imme- 
diate intensity. It was a suspecting place, and a poor sort of place, 
where there never were any great doings; but still Lanaton- 
Courtenay was a comfortable place, and when Maryanne, with that 
perverted keenness of apprehension already noticed, which made 
her so much more clever iu divining her mistress’s schemes than 
doing her mistress's work, had put Kate’s broken words together. 


OMBKA. 


53 


■B universal alarm took possession ot the house. The house-maid, 
tind the kitchen-maid, and the individual who served in the capacity 
of man-ot-all-work, shook in their shoes. Mrs. Cook, however, who 
was housekeeper as well, shook out her ample gkiits, and declared 
that she did not mind. “A house can’t take caie of itself,” she 
said, with noble confidence'; “and they ain’t that clever to know 
how^ to get on without me.” The gardener also, was easy in his 
mind, secure in the fact that “ the ‘ place ’ must be kep' up;” but 
a thrill of tremulous expectation ran through all those who were 
liable to be sent away. 

These fears were ver}^ speedily justified. In as shcrt a time as 
the post permitted, Mr. Courtenay received an eftusive and enthu- 
siastic answer fiom Mrs. Anderson, to whom he had written very 
curtly, making his proposal. This proposal was thar she should 
receive Kate, not as a visitor, but permanently, until she attained 
her majority, giving her what educational advantages were within 
her reach, gelling masters for her, and everything that w^as need- 
ful; and, in shoit, taking entire charge ot her. ‘‘ Circumstances 
prevent me from doing this myself,” he wrote; ” and, of course, a 
lady is better fitted to take charge of a gill at Kate’s tioublesome 
age than 1 can be.” And then he entered upon Ihe subject of 
money. Kate would have an allowance of five hundred pounds a 
year. It was ridiculously large for a child like his niece, bethought 
to himself; but parsimony was not Mr. Courtenay’s weakness. For 
this she was to have everything a girl could require, with the ex- 
ception of society, which her guardian torbade. ‘‘It is not my 
wish that she should be introduced to the world till she is of age, 
and 1 prefer to choose the time and the way myself,” he said. 
‘\yith these conditions and instructions, Kate was to go, if her aunt 
wished it, to the Cottage. 

Mrs. Anderson’s letter, as we have said, was enthusiastic. She 
asked, was she really to have her dearest sister’s only child under 
her care? and appealed to heaven and earth to testify that her de- 
light was unspeakable. She said that her desire could only be the 
welfare, in every point, of ‘‘our darling niecel” That nobody 
could be more anxious than she was to see her glow up the image 
of her sweet mother, ” which, in my mind, means an example of 
every virtue and every grjicel’’ She declaied that wx‘ie she rich 
enough to give Kate ail the advantages she ought to have, she 
would prove to Mr. Courtenay her perfect disinterestedness by re- 
fusing to accept any money with the dear child. But, for Kate's 
own sake, she must accept it;- adding that the provision seemed to 


54 


OMBKA. 


be both ample and liberah Mrs. Anderson went on to say that?, 
masters of every kind came to a famous school in her neighbor 
hood, and that Mr. Courtenay might be quite sureof darling Kate'& 
having every advantage. As for society, there was none, and he- 
need be under no apprehension on that subject. She herself lived 
the quietest of lives, though of course she understood that, when 
Mr, Courtenay said society^ he did not mean that she was to be in- 
terdicted from having a friend now and tlien to tea. This was the 
utmost extent of her dissipations, and she understood, as a matter 
of course, that he did not refer to anything of that description. 
She would come herself to London, she said, to receive from his 
hands “ our darling niece,” and he could perhaps then enter into 
further details as to anything he specially wished in reference to a 
subject on which their common interest was so great. Mr. Courte- 
nay coughed very much over this letter— it gave him an irritation; 
in his throat. *‘ The woman is a humbug as well as a fool!” he 
said to himself. But yet the question was— humbug or no hum- 
bug— was she the best person to free him of the charge of Kate?* 
And, however he might resist, his judgment told him that this was 
the case. 

The rectory people came to return the visit cf Mr. and Miss 
Courtenay while the house was in this confusion and commotion. 
They made a most decorous call at the proper hour, and in just 
the proper number— Mr. and Mrs. Hardwick, and one daughter. 
Kate had fallen from the momentary popularity which she had 
attained on her first appearance at the rectory. She was now 
“ that interfering, disagreeable thing,” to the two girls. Never- 
theless, as was right, in consideration of Miss Courtenay’s age, 
Edith, the sensible one, accompanied her mother. 

” 1 am the best one to go,” said Edith to her mother. ” For 
Minnie, 1 am sure, would lose her temper, and it is much best not 
to throw her into temptation.” 

” You must be quite sure you can resist the temptation yourself,” 
said Mrs. Hardwick, who had brought up her children very w'ell 
indeed, and had early taught them to identify and struggle against 
their specially besetting sins. 

‘‘ You know, mamma, though 1 am sure 1 am a great deal worse 
in other things, this kind cf temptation js not my danger,” said 
Edith; and with this satisfactory arrangement, the party took its 
way to the Hall. 

Kate, in the flutter of joyous excitement which attended the new 
change in her fortunes, was quite a new creature— not the same 


0MB RA. 


55 


'wlio had called at the rectory, and surprised and offended them. 
IShe had forgotten all about her own naughtiness. She seized upon 
Edith, and drew her into a corner, eager for a listener. 

“ Oh! do you know 1 am going away?” she said. ‘‘ Have you 
ever bepii away from home? Have you been abroad? Did ycu 
ever go to. live among people whom you never saw before? That 
is what 1 am going to do.” 

“Oil! 1 am so sorry for you!” said Edith, glad, as she after- 
ward explained to her mother, to be able to say something which 
should at once be amiable and true. 

‘‘ Sorry!” said Kate—” oh! don’t be sorry. 1 am very glad. 1 
-am going to my aunt, who is tond of me, though 1 never saw her. 
'Going to people who are fond of you is different — ” 

” A-'e you fond of her?” said Edith. 

” 1 never saw her,” said Kate, opening her eyes. 

Here was an opportunity to be instructive such as seldom oc- 
curred, e^en in the schools, where Miss Edith’s gift was known. 
The young sage laid her hands upon Kate’s, who was considerably 
5’urprised by the unlooked-for affectionateness. ” 1 am older than 
you,” said Edith— ”1 am quite grown ud. You will not mind 
my speaking to you? Oh! do you know, dear, what is the best 
"way to make people fond of you?” 

”Ko.” 

‘"To love them,” said Edith, with fervor. Kate looked at her 
•with calm, reflective, fully opened eyes. 

“If you can,” she said—” but. then how can you? Besides, it 
is their business to begin; they are older; they ought to know 
more about it — to be more in the way; Uncle Courtenay, for in- 
stance— 1 am sure you are very good— a great deal better than 1 
am; but could you be fond of him?” 

” If he was my uncle— it it was my duty,” said Edith. 

“Oh! 1 don’t know about duty,” said Kate, shaking back her 
abundant locks. The idea did not at all commend itself to her 
mind. ” It is one’s duty to learn lessons,” she w’ent on, “and 
keep one's temper, and ne t to talk too much, and that sort of 
thing, but to be fond of people— However, never mind; we can 
talk of that another time We are going on Monday, and 1 never 
was out of Langton-Courtenay for a single night in all my life 
before.” 

“ Poor child!— what a trial for you!” said Edith. 

At this moment Mrs. Hardwick struck in — “ After the first is 
over, 1 am sure you will like it very^ much,” she said, . “ It will be 


56 


OMBRA. 


such a change. Of course it is always trying to leave home for the 
first time.” 

“ Trying!” cried Kate; and she icse up in the very restlessness 
of delight, with her eyes shining, and her hair streaming behind 
her. But what was the use of discussing it? Ot course they could 
not understand. It was easier to show them over the hcuso and 
the grounds then to explain her feelings to them. And both Mrs. 
Hardwick and Edith were deeply impressed by the splendor of 
Langton-Courtenay. They gave little glances at Kate of mingled 
surprise and admiration. Atter all, they felt, the possessor of such 
a place—the owner of the lands which stretched out as far as they 
could see— ought to be excused if she was a little different from 
other girls. ‘‘ What a temptation it must be!” Edith whispered to 
her mother; and it pleased Mrs. Hardwick to see how tolerant of 
other people’s difficulties her child was. Kate grew quite excited 
by their admiration. She rushed over all the house, leading them 
into a hundred quaint corners. “ I shall fill it trom tep to bottom 
when 1 am of age,” she said. “All those funny bedrooms have 
been so dreadfully quiet and lonely since ever 1 was born; but it 
shall be gay when my time comes.” 

“Oh! hush, my dear,” said pious Mr. Hardwick—'* don’t make 
so sure of the future, when we don’t know what a day or an hour 
may bring forth.” 

“ Well,” said Kate, holding her position stoutly, “ if anything 
happens, ot course there is an end ot it; but if nothing happens— it 
I live, and all that— oh! 1 just wish 1 w^as one-and*twcnty, to show 
you what 1 should do!” 

“Do you. think it will make you happy to be so gay?” said 
Edith, but with a certain wistful inquiry in her'eyes, which was not 
like her old superiority. 

“Oh! my dear children, hush!” repeated her mother— “ don’t 
talk like this. In the first place, gayety is nothing— it is good 
neither for body nor soul; and besides, 1 can not let you chatter so 
about the future. You will forgive rne, my dear Miss Courtenay, 
for 1 am an old-fashioned person; but when we think how little 
w^e know about the future; and your life will be an important one 
—a lesson and an example to so many. We ought to try to make 
ourselves of use to our fellow'-creatures— and you must endeavor 
that the example should be a good one.” 

“ Fancy me an example!” said Kate, half to herself; and then 
she was silent, with a philosophy beyond her years. She did not 
attempt to argue; she had wit enough to see that it would be use- 


OMBKA. 


57 


less, and to pass on to another subject. But as she ran along the 
corridor, and into all the rooms, the thought of what she would 
make of (hem, when she came back, went like wine through her 
thrilling veins. She was glad to go'away— far rnoie glad than any- 
one could imagine who had never lived the gray monotonous 
routine of such an existence, uncheered by companions, un warmed 
by love. But she would also be glad to come back— glad tc enter 
splendidly, a young queen amoung her court. Her head was 
almost turned by this sublime idea. She would come back with 
new friends, new principles, new laws; she would be queen abso- 
lute, without partner or help; she would be the lawgiver, redresser 
of wrongs. Her supremacy would be beneficent as the reign of an 
ideal sovereign; but she icould be supreme! 

When her visitors left, she stood on the threshold of her own 
house, looking with shining eyes into that grand future. The 
shadows had all faded from her mind. She had almost forgotten, 
in the excilement of her new plans, all about Miss Blank’s sharp 
words, and the people who hated her. it would have surprised 
her had any one called that old figment to her recollection. Hate! 
there w^as nothing like it in that future. There were power and 
beneficence, and mirth and brightness. There was everything that 
was gay, everything that was beautiful; smiles and bright looks, 
and wit, and unbounded novelty; and herself the dispenser of 
everything pleasant, herself always supreme! This was the dream 
of the future which framed itself in Kate Courtenay’s thoughts. 


CHAPTER X. 

While all this agitation was going on over Kate’s fate oh one 
side, it is not to be supposed that there was no excitement on the 
other. Her two relations, the mother and daughter to whom she 
w^as about to be confided, were nearly as much disturbed as Kate 
herself by the prospect of receiving her. It might, indeed, be said 
to have disturbed them more, for it affected their entire life. They 
had lately returned to England, and settled dowm, after a wander- 
ing life, in a house of their own. They were not rich, but they had 
enough. They were not humble, but accustomed to think very well 
of themselves; and the fact was that, though Mrs. Anderson had, 
for many reasons, accepted Mr. Courtenay’s proposal with enthusi- 
asm, even she felt that the ideal seclusion she had been dreaming of 
was at once broken up— even sue — and still more Ombra, her 


% 


58 


OMBKA, 


daughter, was fanciful, and of a somewhat jealous ana con- 
tradictory temper, fond of her own way, and of full freedom t 3 : 
carry her fancies out. 

Mrs. Andeison, let us say at once, was neithei a hypocrite nor a. 
fool, and never, during their whole intercourse, regarded her heir„ 
ess- niece as a means of drawing advantage to herself, or in a mer- 
cenary way. She was a w aim-hearted, kind, and just woman; but 
she had her faults. The chief of these was a very excess of virtue. 
Her whole soul was set upon not being good only, but appearing so. 
She could not bear the idea of being deficient in any decorum, in 
any sentiment which society demanded. No one could have grieved 
more sincerely than she aid for her husband; but a bitterer pang, 
even than that caused her by natural sorro'w would have gone 
through her heart, had she been tempted to smile through her tears- 
a day sooner than public cpinion warranted a widow to smile. In 
every position — even that in which she felt most truly— a sense of 
what society expected from her was always in her mind. This code 
of unwritten law went deeper with her even than nature. She had 
truly longed and yearned over Kate, in her kind heart, from the 
moment she had reached England; and had she followed her natural 
instincts, would have rushed at once to Langton-Courtenay, to see 
the child whc was all that remained of a sister whom she had 
loved. But the World, in that case, would have said that she meant 
to establish herself at LangtDu-Courtenay, and ihat her aftection for 
her niece was feigned or mercenary. 

“ Let her alone, then,” Ombra said. '* Why should we trouble 
ourselves? If her friends think we are not good enough for her^ 
let her alone. Why should she think herself belter than we?” 

‘‘ My love, she is very young,” said Mrs. Andeison; ” and, be- 
sides, it 1 took no notice at all of Catherine’s only child, what 
would people suppose? It would be thought either that 1 had a 
guilty conscience in respect to the Courtenays, or that I had been 
repulsed. Hobody would believe that we had simply let her alone, 
as you say; and, besides, 1 am longing to see Kate with all my 
heart.” 

” What does it matter wind people say?’* said Ombra. ”1 da 
not see what any one has to do with our private affairs.” 

‘‘ That is a great delusion,” said Mis. Anderson, shaking her 
head; ” every one has to do with every one else’s private affairs. It 
you do not wish to lay yourself open to remark, you will always 
keep this in mind. And our position is very trying, between your 
cousin's wealth and our love tor her—” 


OMBRA. 


59 


■“ 1 don’t think 1 have very much love tor her, mamma.’' 

“ My dear child, don’t let any one but me hear you say sc. She 
ought to be like a sister tc you,” said Mrs. Anderson. 

And Ombra let the discussion drop, and permitted her mother, in 
this respect, tc have her own way. But she was not in any respect 
•of her mother’s way ()f thinking. Her temptation was tc hate and 
despise the opinion of society just in proportion to the reverence for it 
which she had been bred in; a result usual enough with clear sighted 
and impetuous young persons, conscious of the defects of their par- 
ents. Onbra was a pretty, gentle, soft- mannered girl in outward 
appearance; but a certain almost fierce independence and determina- 
tion to guide her own course as she herself pleased, was in her 
heart. She would not be influenced, as her mother had been, by 
other people’s ideas. She thought, with some recent writers, that 
the doctrine of self-sadrilice, taught specially to women, w’as alto- 
gether false, vain, and miserable. She felt that she herself ought 
to be first in her home and sphere; and she did not feel disposed 
even to share with, much less to yield to, the rich cousin whom she 
had never seen. She shrugged her shoulders over Mrs. Anderson’s 
letter to Kate, but she did not interfere further, until Mr. Courte- 
nay’s astounding proposal arrived, fluttering the household as a 
hawk would flutter the dove-cote. At the first reading, it drove 
Ombra frantic. It was impossible, out ol the question, not to be 
thought of for a moment! In this small bouse, with their two 
maids, in the quiet of Shanklin, what w^re they to do with a self- 
important girl, a creature, no doubt, brqd from her cradle to a con- 
sciousness of her own greatness, and who wanted all sorts of mas- 
ters and advantages? Mrs. Anderson knew how to manage her 
daughter, and for the moment she allowed her to have her w’ay, and 
pour forth her indignation. The letter came by the early post; and 
it was only when they were seated at tea in the evenina that she 
brought forward the other side of the question. 

” What you say is all very true, Ombra; but we have two spare 
bedrooms — there would still be one lett lor a friend, even if we took 
in poor dear little Kate.” 

” Poor Kate! Why is she poor? She could buy us over and 
over,” said Ombra, in her indignation. 

Buy wbat?” said her clever mother — ” our love?” 

‘‘ Mamma, please don’t speak any nonsense about love!” said 
Ombra, hastily. “ 1 can’t love people at a moment’s notice; be- 
cause a girl whom 1 never saw happens to be the child of my aunt, 
Whom 1 never saw — ” 


60 


OMBRA. 


“ Then suppose we leave you out/’ said her mother. * * She is 
the child of my sister, whom 1 knew well, and was very fond of — 
that alters the question so far as 1 am concerned.” 

Oh! of course, mamma,” said Ombia, with darkened brows, 

I do not pretend to do more than give my opinion. It is for yon 
to say how" it is to be,” 

“Do you think 1 can make a decision without you?” said the 
mother, pathetically. ” You must try to look at it more reasona- 
bly, my dear. Next to you, Kate is the creature most near to me 
in the world— next to me. Now, listen, Ombra; she is your near- 
est relation. Think what it will be to have a friend and sister if 
anything should happen to me. The house is small, but we can 
not truly say that we have not room for a little girl of fifteen in it. 
And then tbink of her loneliness— not a soul to care for her, except 
that old Mr. Courtenay — ” 

Oh! that is nonsense; she must have some one to care for her 
or else she must he intensely disagreeable,” said Ombra. ” Mam- 
ma, remember what 1 say —if we take her in, we shall repent it all 
our lives.” 

“Nothing -of the sort, my , dear,” snid Mrs. Anderson, eagerly 
following up this softened opposition. “ Why, she is only fifteen 
— a mere child! — we can mold her as we will. And then, my dear- 
est cJiild, though heaven knows it is not interest 1 am thinking of, 
still it will be a great advantage; our income will be doubled. I 
must say Mr. Courtenay is very liberal, if nothing else. We shall 
be able to do many things that we could not do otherwise. Why, 
Ombra, you look as if you thought 1 meant to rob your cousin—” 

“ 1 would not use a penny of her allowance — it should be all 
spent upon herself!” cried the girl, Hushing with indignant pas- 
sion. “ Our income doubled! Mamma, what can you be thinking^ 
of? Do you suppose 1 could endure to be a morsel the better for 
that Kate?” 

“ You are a little fool, and there is no talking to you,” said Mrs. 
Anderson, with natural impatience; and for half an hour they did 
not speak lo each other. This, however, could not last very long, 
for providentially, as Mrs. Anderson said, one of the rectory girls, 
came in at the time when it was usual for the ladies to take their 
morning walk, and she would not for ail the Isle ot W ight have 
permitted Elsie to see that her child and she were not on their 
usual terms. When Elsie had left them, a slight relapse was 
threatened, but they w^ere then walking together along the cliff, 
with one of the loveliest of landscapes betore them— the sun settings 


OMBRA. 


6t 


the ruddy glory lighting up Sandown Bay, and all the earth and 
sea watching that last crisis and climax of the day. 

“ Oh! there is the true daffodil sky!’' Ombra exclaimed, in spite 
of herself, and the breach was healed. It was she herself 
who resumed the subject some time later, when they turn- 
ed toward home. “ 1 do not see,” she said abruptly, “ what 
we could do about masteis tor that girl, if she were to come here^ 
To have them down fiom town would be ruinous, and tc be con- 
stantly going up to town with her— to you, who so hate the ferry — 
would be dreadful!” 

” JVJy love, you forget Miss Story’s^school, where they have all 
the best masters,” said Mrs. Anderson, mildly. 

“You could not send her to school.” 

“ But they would come to us, my dear. Of course they would 
be very glad to come to us tor a little more money, and 1 should 
gladly lake the opportunity for your music, Ombra. 1 thought of 
that. T wish everything could be settled as easily. If you only 
saw the matter as 1 do-»” 

” There is another thing,” said Ombra, hastily, ” w^hich does not 
matter to me, for 1 hate society; but it she is to be kept like a nun, 
and never to see any one—” 

Mrs. Anderson smiled serenely. ” My love, who is there to seef 
-"the rectory children and a few ladies— people whcm we ask to 
tea. Of course, 1 would not think of taking her to balls or even 
dinner-jDarties; but then, 1 never go to dinnei -parties — there is na 
one to ask us; and as for balls, Ombra, you kncv 7 what you said 
about that nice ball at Kyde.” 

”1. hate them!” said Ombra, vehemently. ” 1 hope 1 shall 
never be forced to go to another in all my life.” 

” Tlien that question is settled very easily,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
without allowing any signs of triumph to appear in her face. And 
next clay she wrote to Mr. Courtenay, as has been described. When- 
she w^rote about “our darling niece,” the tears were in her eyes. 
She meant it with all her heart; but, at the same time, it was the 
right thing to say, and to be anxiou^ and eager to receive the cr- 
phan were the right sentiments to entertain. “It is the most 
proper arrangement,” she said afterward to the rector’^ wife, who 
was her nearest neighbor, “ Of course her mother’s sister is her 
most natural guardian. The property is far best in Mr. Courte- 
nay’s hands; but the child herself—” 

“ Poor child 1” said 'Mrs. Eldridge, looking at her own children^ 


K32 


OMBEA. 


who were many, and thinking within herself that to trust them to 
;any one, even an aunt — 

“ Yes, poor chihl!'* cried Mrs. Anderson, with the tears in her 
•oyes; “ and my Catherine would have made such a mother! But 
we must do what we can to make it up to her. She will have some 
one at least to love her here.’' 

“ 1 am sure you will be — good to her,” said the rector’s wife, 
looking wistfully, in her pity, into the face of the woman who, to 
Eer simple mind, did protest too much. Mrs. Eldridge felt, as 
many a straightforward person does, that her neighbor’s extreme 
propriet}’’, and regard fof what was befitting and ” expected of 
lier,” was the mask of insincerity. She did not understand the ex- 
istence of true feeling beneath all that careful exterior. Bui she 
was puzzled and touched for the moment by the tears in her com- 
panion’s e3’’es. 

” 'You can’t get up tears, you know, when you will,” she said 
to her husband, when they discussed poor Kate’s prospects of hap- 
piness in her aunt’s house, that same night. 

” 1 can’t,” said the rector, ” nor you; but one has heard of croc- 
odile tears!” 

” Oh! Fred, no— net so bad as that!” 

But still both these good people distrusted Mrs. Anderson, 
tUronejh her very anxiety to do right, and show that she was doing 
it. They were afraid of her excess of virtue. The exaggeration of 
the true seemed to them false. And they even doubted the amount 
■of Kate’s allowance, because of the aunt’s frankness in telling them 
of it. They thought her intention was to raise her own and her 
niece’s importance, and calculated among themselves what the real 
«um was likely to be. Pcor Mrs. Anderson! everybody was un- 
just to her— even her daughter— on this point. 

But it was with no sense of this general distrust, but, on the con- 
trary, with the most genial sense of having done everything that 
could be required of her, that she left home on a sunny June morn- 
ing, with her heart 'beating quicker than usual in her breast, to bring 
iiome her charge. Her heart was beating partly out of excitement 
;to see Kate, and partly out of anxiety about the crossing from Hyde, 
which she hated. The sea looked calm, from Sandown, but Mrs. 
Anderson knew, by long experience, that the treacherous sea has a 
way of looking calm until you have trusted yourself to its tender 
mercies. This thought, along with her eagerness to see her sister’s 
child, made her heart beat. 


OJIBEA. 


63 


CHAPTER S;L 

. Mr. Courtenay had stipulated that Kate was tc be met by her 
aunt, not at Uis house, but at the railway, and to continue liev jour- 
ney at once. Hia house, he said, was shut up; but his real reasoa 
was reluctance to establish any precedent or pretext tor other inva- 
sions. Kate started in the very highest spirits, scarcely able to 
contain herself, running over with talk and laughter, making a 
perpetual comment upon all that passed before her. Even Miss 
Blank’s sinister congratulations, when she took leave of the little 
traveling party, “ 1 am sure 1 wish you joy, sir, and 1 wish Mrs. 
Anderson joy!” did not damp Kate’s spirits. ”1 shall tell my 
aunt, Miss Blank, and 1 am sure she will be much obliged to you,”' 
the girl said, as she took her seat in the carriage. And Maryanne, 
who, red and excited, was seated by her, tittered in sympathy. 

When Mr. Courtenay hid himself behind a newspaper, it was on 
Maiyanne that Kate poured forth the tide of her excitement. ' * Isn’t 
it delightful!” she said, a hundred times over. ”Ohl yes, miss;, 
but father and mother!” Maryanne answered, wdth a sob. Katd 
^ contemplated her gravely for twenty seconds. Here was a differ- 
ence, a distinction, which she did not understand. But before the 
.. minute was half ever her thoughts had gone abroad again in a con- 
fusion of expectancy and pleasure. Sue leaned half out of the 
window, casting eager glances upon the people who were waiting 
the arrival of the train at the station. The first figure upon which 
she set her e 5 ^es was that of a squat old woman in a red and yellow 
shawl. ” Oh! can that be my aunt?” Kate said to herself, witli 
" dismay. The next was a white-haired, substantial old lady, old 
enough to be Mrs. Anderson’s motner. ” This is she! She is nice! 
1 shall be fond of her!” cried Kate to herself. When the white- 
- hairtd lady found some one else, Kate’s heart sunk. Oh! where 
was the new guardian? 

‘‘Miss Kate! oh! please. Miss Kate!” said Maryanne; and turn- 
ing sharply round, Kate found herself in somebody’s arms. She 
had not time to see who it was; she felt only a warm darkness sur- 
round her, the pressure of something which held her close, and a. 
voice murmuring, “My darling child! my Catherine’s child!” 
murmuring and purring ever her. Kate had time to think, ” Oht 
how tall she is! Oh! how warm! Oh! how funny!” before she. 


64 


OMBRA. 


was let loose and kissed — whicli latter process allowed her to see a 
-tall woman, not in the least like the white-haired grandmother 
whom she had fixed upon— a woman not old, with hair of Kate’s 
own color, smiles on her face, an[t tears in her eyeSt^ 

“ Let me look at yen, my sweet! 1 should have knowm you any- 
where. You are so like your darling mother!” said the new aunt. 
And then she wept; and then she said, ‘‘Is it you? it really 
you, my Kate?” And all this took place at the station, with Uncle 
Courtenay sneering hard by, and strangers looking on. 

” Yes, aunt, of course it is me,” said Kate, who scorned gram- 
nifii; ‘‘who should it be? 1 came expressly to meet you; and 
Uncle Courtenay is there, who will tell ycu it is all right.” 

“ Dearest! as if 1 had any need of your uncle Courtenay,” said 
Mrs. Anderson; and she kissed her over again, and cried once 
more, most honest but inappropriate tears. 

” Are yen sorry?” cried Kate, in surprise; ” because 1 am glad, 
wery glad to see you. 1 could not cry for anything—! am as happy 
as 1 can he.” 

” You darling!” said Mrs. Andersen. “ But you are right, it is 
too public here. 1 must take you away tc have some luncheon, 
loo, my precious child. There is no time to lose. Oh! Kale, Kate, 
to think 1 should have you at last, after so many years!” 

” 1 hope you will be pleased with me now, aunt,” said Kate, a 
little alarm mingling with her surprise. Was she worth all this 
fuss? It was fuss; but Kate had no constitutional objectian to 
fuss, and it was pleasant, on the whole. After all the snubbing she 
had gone through, it was balm to her to be received so warmly; 
oven though the cynicism which she had been trained into was 
moved by a certain sense of the ludicrous, too. 

*‘ Kate says wel.,” said old Mr. Courtenay. ** 1 hope you will 
be pleased with her, now you have her. To some of us she has 
been a sufiiciently troublesome child; but 1 trust in your hands— 
your more skillful hands—” 

*‘ 1 am not afiaid,” said Mrs. Anderson, with a very suave smile; ' 
' * and even it she were troublesome, 1 should be glad to have her. 
But we start directly; and the child must have some luncheon. 
Will you join us, cr must we say good-bye? for we shall not be at 
liome till after dinner, and at present Kate must have something 
to eat.” 

” X have an engagement,” said Mr. Courtenay, hastily. VV^hat! 
he lunch at a raihvay station with a girl of fifteen and this un- 
Jknown woman, who, by the way, was rather handsome after her 


OMBRA. 


6o 


fashion! AVliat a fool she must be to think of such a thing! He 
bowed himself oft very politely, with an assurance that new his 
mind was easy about his ward. She must write to him, he said, ~ 

and let him knew in a few days how she liked Shanklin; but in 
the meantime .*e was compelled to hurry away. 

When Kate felt herseit thus stranded, as it were, upon an utterly 
lonel}^ and unknown shore, in the hands of a woman she had never 
seen before, and the last familiar face withdrawn, there ran a little 
pain, a little thrill, half of excitement, halt of dismay, in her heart. 

She clutched at Maryanne, who siood behind her; she examinsd 
once again, with keen eyes, the new guide of her life,. This was 
novelty indeed ’ — but novelty so sharp and sudden that it took away 
her breath. Airs. Anderson’s tone had been very difterent to her 
uncle from what it was to herself. What did this mean? Kafe~ 
was bewildered, half frightened, stunned by the change, and she 
could not make it out. 

“ Aly dear, 1 am sure your uncle has a great many engagements,’^ 
said Airs. Anderson; “ gentlemen who are in society have so many 
claims upon them, especially at this time of the year; or perhaps 
he thought it kindest to let us make friends by ourselves. Of ' J 
course he must be very fond of you, dear; and 1 must always be - 

grateful for his good opinion; without that he would not have 
trusted his treasure in my hands.” i 

“Aunt Anderson,” said Kate, hastily, “ please don’t make a i 

mistake. 1 am sure 1 am no treasure at all to him, but only a 
trouble and a nuisance. You must not think so well of me as | 

that. He thought me a great trouble, and he was very glad to get 
Tid of me. 1 know this is true.”- | 

Airs. Anderson only smiled. She put her arm through the girl’s, ' * 

iind led her away. ” We will not discuss the qaestion, my dar- f 

ling, for you must have something to eat. When did you leave 1 

Langton? Oui train starts at two — we have not much time to lose. | 

Are 3"ou huiigiy? Oh! Kate, how glad 1 am to have you! How _ . ; 
very glad 1 am! You have your mother’s very eyes,” i 

‘‘ Then don’t cry, aunt, if you are glad.” * 

” It is because 1 am glad, you silly child. Come in here and ^ 

give me one good kiss. And now, dear, we will have a little cold I 

chicken, and get settled in the carriage before the crowd comes.” j 

And how difterent was the second part cf this journey! Airs. i 

Anderson got no newspaper— she sat opposite to Kate, and smiled i 

ail she said. She told her the names of the places they were J 

passing; she was alive to every light and shade that passed over I 



66 


OMBRA. 


her young, changeable face. Then Kate fell silent all at once, and. 
began to think, and cast many a furtive look at her new-found le- 
laticn; at last she said, in a low voice, and with a certain anxiety,. 

“ Aunt, is it possible that ] could remember mamma?” 

“ Ah! no; Kale; she died just when you were born.” 

“ Then did 1 ever see you before?” 

“ IS ever since you were a little baby — never that you could 
know.” 

“ It is very strange,” the girl said, half to herself; “ but 1 surely 
know some face like yours. Ah! could it be She stopped,, 

and her face flushed up to her hair. 

“ Could it be what, dear?” 

— Tlien Kate laughed out— the softest, most musical, tender little 
laugh that ever came from her lips. “ 1 know,” she said— “ it is 
myself!” 

Mis. Anderson blushed, too, with sudden pleasure. It was a 
positive happiness to her, penetrating beneath all her little proper* 
ties and pretensions. She took the girl’s hands, and bending for- 
ward-, looked at her in the face; and it was lrue--they were as like 
as if they had been mother and daughter — though the elder had 
toned down, and lost that glory of complexion, jthat brightness of 
intelligence; and the younger w^as brighter, quicker, more intefli- 
- gent than her predecessor had ever been. This made at once the 
sweetest, most pleasant link between them; it bound them together 
by Kalure’s warm and visible bond. They were both proud of 
this tie, which could be seen in their faces, which they could not 
throw cfl; nor cast away. 

V But after the feriy was crossed — when they were drawing near 
Shanklin — a silence fed upon both. Kate, with a quite new-born 
timidity, was shy of inquiring about her cousin; and Mrs. Ander- 
Bun was too doubtful of Umbra’s mood to say more of her than she 
could help. Bhe longed to he able to say, “ Umbra will be sure to 
meet us,” but did not dare. And Umbra did not meet them; she 
was not to be seen, even, as they walked up to the house. It was 
a pretty cottage, embowered in luxuriant leafage, ]ust under the 
slieiter of the cliff, and looking out over its own lawn, and a thread 
' of quiet road-, and the slopes cf the XJndercliff, upon the distant 
sea. There was, however, no one at the door, no one at any c>t the 
windows, no trace that they were expected, ard Mrs. Anderson’s 
heart w’as wrung by the sight. [Naturally she grew at once mure 
prodigal of her welcomes and caresses. “ How glad 1 am to see 
you here, my darling Kate! This is your home, dear child. As 


OMBEA. 


67 


long as 1 live, whenever you may want it, my humble house will 
he youTS trom this day— always remember that; and welcome, my 
darling— welcome home!'' 

Kate accepted the kisses, but her thoughts weie tar away. Where 
was the other who should have given her a welcome, too? All the 
girl’s eager soul rushed upon this new track. Did Ombra object 
to her?— why was not she here? Ombra’s mother, though she said 
nothing, had given many anxious glances round her, which were 
not lost upon Kale’s keen perceptions? Could Ombi^g object to the 
Intruder? After ail her aunt’s effusions, this was a new idea to 
Kate. 

Tho-door was thrown open fcy a little woman . in a curious head- 
dress, made out of a colored handkerchief, whose appearance filled 
Kale with amazement, and whose burst of greeting she could not 
for the first moment understand. Kate's eyes went over her shoul- 
der to a commonplace English house maid behind with a sense^f 
relief. "‘Oh! how the young lady is welcome!” cried old Fran- 
cesca. ” How she is as the light to our eyest— and hew like our 
padrona— how like! Come in— come in; your chamber is ready, 
little angel. Oh! how bella, bella oui lady must have been at that 
age!” 

“ Hush, Francesca; do not put nonsense into the child’s head,” 
said Mrs. Anderson, still looking anxiously round. 

‘‘ 1 judge from what 1 see,” said the old Wmman; and then she 
added, in answer to a question from her mistress’s eyes, “Meess 
Ombra has the bad head again. It was 1 that made her put her- 
selt to bed. 1 made the room dark, and gave her the tea as madam 
herself does it, otherwise she would be here to kiss this new angel, 
and bid her the welcome. Come m, come in, carissima; come up, 
1 will show you the chamoer. Ah! our signori^a has not been 
able to keep still when she heard you, though she has the bad head, 
the very had head.” 

And then there appeared to Kate, coming down-stairs, the slight 
figure of a girl in a black dress— a girl wdiom, at the first moment, 
slie thought younger than herself. Omfcra was not at all like her 
mother — she was like her name, a shadowy creature, with no light 
about her— not even in the doubtful face, p&le and fair, which her 
cousin gazed upon so curicusly. She said nothing till she hart 
come up to them, and did not quicken her pace in the least, though 
they were all gazing at her. To fill up this pause, Mrs. Anderson, 
who was a great deal more energetic and more impressionable than 
her daughter, rushed to her across the little hall. 


68 


OMBEA. 


** My darling, are you ill? 1 know only that could have pre- 
vented you trom coming to meet your cousin. Here she is, Ombra,. 
mia; here we have her at last — my sweet Kate! JNow love each 
other, girls; be as your mothers were; open your hearts to each 
other. Oh! my dear children, it ycu but knew how 1-love you 
both!” 

And Mrs. Anderson cried while the two stood holding each 
other’s hands, looking at each other—on Kate's side with violent 
curiosity; on Ombra’s apparently with indiSerence. The mother 
had to do all the emotion that was necessary, with an impulse' 
which was partly love, and partly vexation, and partly a hope to- 
kindle in them the teelings that became the occasion. 

” How do you dc? lam glad to see you. 1 hope you will like 
Bhanklin,” said chilly Ombra. 

, “Thanks,” said Kate; and they dropped each other’s hands; 
while poor Mrs. Anderson wept unavailing tears, and old Frances- 
ca, in sympathy, fluttered about the new “ little angel,” taking off 
her cloak, and uttering aloud her admiration and delight. It was^ 
a strange beginning to Kate’s new life. 

“ 1 wonder, I wonder—” the new comer said to herself when she 
was saf el}' housed for the night, and alone. Kate had seated her- 
self at the window, from whence a gleam of moon and sky was 
visible, half veiled in clouds. She was in her dressing-gown, and 
with her hair all over her shoulders, was a pretty figure to behold, 
had there been any one to see. “ 1 wonder, 1 wonder!” she said to 
herself. But she could not have put into words what her wonder- 
ings were. There was only in them an indefinite sense that some- 
thing not quite apparent had run on beneath- the surface in this 
welcome of hers. She could not tell w^hat it was — w'hy her aunt 
should nave wept; why Ombra should have been so different. Was 
it the ready tears of the one that chilled the other? Kale was not 
clear enough on the subject to ask lierself this question. She only 
W'ondered, feeling there was something more than met the eye. 
But, on the whole, the child was happy— she had been Kissed and 
blessed when she came upstairs; she seemed to be surrounded with 
an atmosphere of love and care. There was nobody (except Ombra) 
indifferent— everybody cared; all were interested. She wondered — 
but at fifteen one does not demand an answer to all the indefinite 
wonder ings which arise in one’s heart; and, despite of Ombra, 
Kate’s heart was lighter tl^an it had ever been (slie thought) in nM 
her life. Everything w^as strange, new^ unknown to her, yet it was- 
home. And this is a paradox w’hich is always sw^eet. 


OMBBA. 


69 


CHAPTER XIl. 

There was something that might almost have been called a 
quarrel down-stairs that night over the new arrival. Omhra was 
cross, and her mother was displeased; but Mis. Anderson had far 
too strong a sense of propriety to suiter herself to scold. When 
she said, “ 1 am disappointed in you, Ombra. 1 have seldom been 
more wounded than when 1 came to the door, and did not find ^ 
you," she had done all that occurred to her in the way of reproof. 

“ But 1 had a headache, mamma." 

‘‘We must speak to the doctor about your headaches," said Mrs. 
Anderson; and Ombra, with something like sullenness, went to 
bed. 

But she was not to esape so easily. Old Francesca had been 
Ombra’s nurse. She was not so very old, but had aged, as peasant 
women of her nation do. She was a Tuscan born, with the shrill 
and high-pitched voice natural to her district, and she had followed 
the fortunes of the Andersons all over the world, from the time of 
her nursling’s birth. She was, in consequence, a most faithful serv- 
ant and friend, knowing no interests but those of her mistress, but 
at the same time a most uncompromising monitor. Ombra knew 
what was in store for her, as soon as she discovered Francesca, 
with her back turned, folding up the diess she had worn in the 
morning. The chances are that Ombja would have fled, had she 
been able to do so noiselessly, but she had already betrayed herself 
by closing the door. 

“ Francesca," she said, afiecting an ease which she did not feel, 

“ are you still here? Are you net in bed? You will tire yourself 
oul. Kem mind those things. 1 will put them away myself." 

“ The things might be indifteient to me," said Francesca, turn- ; 
ing round upon her, " but you are not. My young lady, 1 have a * 
great deal to say to you." 

This converBatiou was chiefly in Italian, both the interlocutors 
changing, as pleased them, from one language to another; but as 
it is unnecessary to cumber the page with italics, or the reader’s 
mind with two languages, 1 will take the liberty of putting it in 
English, though in so doing 1 may wrong Francesca’s phrases. 
When her old nurse addressed her thus, Ombra trembled— half in 
reality because she was a chilly being, and halt by way of rousing 
her companion’s sympathy. But Francesca was ruthless. 


70 


GMBRA. 


“ You have the cold, 1 uerceive,” she said, “ and deserve''to have 
it. Seems to me that if you thought sometimes of putting a little 
warmth in your heart, instead of covering upon your body, that 
would answer better. What has the little cousin done, Dio mw^ 
to make you as if you had been for a night on the mountains? 1 
look to see the big ice-drop hanging fiom your fingers, and the 
snow-flakes in your hair! You have the cold!— bah! you are the 
cold! — it is in you!— it fieezes! 1, whose blood is in your veins, 1 
'Stretch out my hand to get warm, and 1 chill, 1 freeze, I die!” 

“1 am Omhra,” said the girl, with a smile, “you know; how 
can 1 warm you, Francesca? It is not my nature.” 

“ Are you not, then, God’s making, because they have given 
you a foolish name?” cried Francesca. “ The Ombra 1 love, she 
is the Ombra that is cool, that is sweet, that brings life when one 
comes out of a blazing sun. You say the sun does not blaze h.ere; 
but what is here, after all? A^piece of the world which God made! 
When you were little, Santissima Madonna! you were sweet as an 
olive orchard; but now you are somber and dark, like a pine wood 
on the Apennines. 1 will call you ‘ Ghiaccia,’* not Ombra any 
more,” 

“ It was not my fault. You aie unjust. 1 had a headache* 
You said so yourself.” 

“Ah, disgraziata, 1 said it to shield you. You have brought 
upon my conscience a great big— what you call fib. 1 hope my 
good priest will not say it was a lie!” 

“ i did not ask you to do it,” cried Ombra. “ And then there 
was mamma, crying overHirat girl as if there never had been any* 
thing like her b fore!” 

“ The dear lady! she did it as 1 did, to cover your coldness— 
your look of ice. Can we bear that the world should see what a 
snow-maiden we have between us? 'V\’'e-did it for 3 'our sake, un- 
grateful one, that no one should see—” 

“ 1 wish you would let me alone,” said Ombra; and though she 
was seventeen— two years older than Kate— and had a high sense 
of her dignity, she began to cry. “ If you only would be true, 1 
should not mind; but you have so much effusion — you say more 
than you mean, both mamma and you.” 

“Seems to me that it is better to be too kind than too cold,’' 
said Francesca, indignantly. “And this poor little angel, the 
orphan, the child of the Madonna— ah! you have not that thought 


* Ice. 


OMBEA. 


71 


in your icy Protestant; but among us Christians every orphan la 
Madonna's child. How could 1 love the holiest mother, if 1 did 
not love her child? Bah!. you know better, but you will not al- 
low it. Is it best, tell me, to wound the voverina with your too 
little, or to make her warm and glad with the too mooch? — even if 
it were the too mooch,” said Francesca, half apologetically; 
” thouglr there is nothing that is too mocch, if it is permitted me 
to say it, for the motherless one-^the orphan—the Madonna’s 
child !” 

Ombra made no reply; she shrugged her shoulders, and began to 
let’ down her hair out of its bands— the worst of the storm was 
over. 

But Francesca had reserved herself for one parting blaze. ** And 
know you, my young lady, what will come to you, if thus you 
proceed in your life?” she said. ” When one wanders too mooch 
on the snowy mountains, one falls into an ice-pit, and one dies. It 
will so come to you. Pou will grow colder and colder, colder and 
colder. When it is for your good to be warm, you will be ice; you 
will not be able more to help yourself. You will make love freeze 
up like the water in the torrent; you will lay it in a tomb of snow, 
you wu’ll build the ice- monument over it, and then all^ou can do 
will be vain— it will live no more. Signorina Ghiaccia, if thus you 
go on, this fs what will come to you.” 

And with this parting address, Francesca darted forth, not dis- 
daining, like a mere mortal and English domestic, to shut the door 
with some violence. Ombra had her cry out by herself, wdiile 
Kate sat wondering in the next room. The elder girl asked her- 
self, was it true?— was she really a snow-maiden, or was it some 
myslerious influence from her name that threw this shade over her, 
and made her so contradictory and burdensome even to lierself ? 

For Ombra was not aware that she had been christened by a 
much more sober name. She stood as Jane Catherine in the books 
of the Leghorn chaplain— a conjunction of respectable appellatives 
which could not have any sinister influence. 1 doubt, however, 
whether she would have taken any comfort from this fact; for it 
w^as pleasant to think of herself as born under some wayward star 
—a shadowy creature, unlikft common flesh and blood, half Italian, 
half spirit. * How can 1 help it?” she said to herself. The peo- 
ple about her did not understand her— not ever her mother and Fran- 
cesca. They put the commonplace flesh-and-blood girl on a level 
with her — this Kate, with half-red hair, with shallow, bright eyes, 
tvith all that red and w^hite that people rave about in foclish books. 


72 


OMBRA, 


“ Kate will be the heroine wherever we go,” she said, with a smile, 
which had more pain than pleasure in it. She was a little jealous, 
a little cross, disturbed in her fanciful soul; and yet she was not 
heartless and cold, as people thought. The accusation w’ounded 
her, and haunted her as it with premonitions of reproaches to come. 

It was not hard to hear from Francesca, who washer devoted slave; 
but it occurred dimly to Ombra, as it in prophecy, that the time 
would come when she should hear the same words from other 
voices. Kct Ombra-Ghiaccia! Was it possible? Could that fear 
ever come true? 

Mrs. Anderson, for her part, was less easy about this change in " 
her household than she would^ allow. When she was alone, the 
smiles went oft her countenance. Kate, though she had been so - 
glad to see her, though the likeness to herself had made so imme- 
diate a bond between them, w^as evidently enough not the kind of * 
girl who could be easily managed, or who was likely to settle down 
quietly into domestic peace and order. She had the makings of a , 
great lady in her, an independent, high-spirited princess, to whom 
it was not necessary to consider the rules which aie made for - 
humbler maidens. Already she had told her aunt what she meant 
to do at Langton when she went back; already she had inquired 
with lively curiosity all about Shanklin, Mrs. Anderson thought ; 
of her two critics at the rectory, w’ho, she knew by instinct, were 
ready to pick holes in her, and be hard upon her “ foreign ways,” 
and trembled for her niece’s probable vagaries. It was “ a great 
responsibility,” a ‘ trying position,” for herself. Many a ” trying 
position ” she had been in already, the difficulties of which she 
had surmounted triumphantly. She could only hope that “ proper 
feelings/’ ‘‘proper respect” for the usages of society, would 
bring her once more safely through. When Francesca darted in 
upen her, fresh from the lecture she had delivered, Mrs. Ander- 
son’s disturbed look at once betrayed her. 

“ My lady looks as she used to look when the big letters came, 
saying Go,” said Francesca; “but, courage, signora mia, the big * 
letters come no more.” 

” No; nor he who received them, Francesca,” said the mistress, 
sadly. “ But it was not that 1 was thinking of —it was my new 
care, my new responsibility.” 

*‘ Bah!” cried Francesca; ” my lady will pardon me, 1 did not 
mean to be rude. Ah! if my lady was but a Christian like us other 
Italians! Why, there never came an orphan into a kintf house, 
but she brought a blessing. The dear Madonna will never let 


OMBEA. 


73 


trouble come to you from her child; and, besides, the little angel is 
exactly like you. Just sc must my lady have loc ked at her age- 
beautiful as the day.'* 

“Ah! Francesca, you are paitial,'* said Mrs. Anderson, with, 
however, a returning smile. “ I never was so pretty as Kate.” 

“ My lady will pardon me,” said Francesca, with quiet gravity; 
“ in my eyes, sejiza complimenti, there is no one so beautiful as my 
lady even now.” 

This statement was much too serious and superior to compli- 
ment-making, 10 be answered, especially as Francesca turned at 
once to the window, to close the shutters, and make all safe lor the 
night. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

Mrs. ANDERSOoSf’s house was situated in one of those nests of 
warmth and verdure which are characteristic of the Isle ot Wight. 
There was a white cliff behind, partially veiled with turt and 
bushes, the remains of an ancient landslip. The green slope which 
formed its base, and which, in spring, was carpeted with wild- 
flowers. descended into the sheltered sunny garden, w^hich made a 
fringe of flowers and greenness round the cottage. On that side 
there was no need ot fence or boundary. A wild little rustic flight 
of steps led upward to the winding mountain-path which led 
to the brow of the cliff, and the cliff itself thus became the 
property of the little house. Both cottage and garden were small, 
but the one was a mass of flowers, and the airy brightness and 
lightness of the other made up for its tiny size. The windows of 
the little drawing-room opened into the rustic veranda, all gar- 
landed with climbing iflants; and though the view was not very 
great, nothing but flowers and verdure, a bit of quiet road, a 
glimpse of blue sea, yet from the cliff there was a noble prospect — 
all Sandown Bay, with its white promontory, and the wide stretch 
of water, sometimes blue as sapphire, though gray enough when 
the wind brought it in, in huge rollers uxDon the strand. The sight, 
and sound, and scent ot the sea were all alike new to Kate. The 
murmur in her ears day and night, now soft, like the hu-ush of a 
mother to a child, now thundering like artillery, now gay as laugh- 
ter, delighted the young soul which was athirst for novelty. Here 
was something which was always new. There was no limit to her 
enjoyment of the sea. ^he liked it when wild and when calm, and 
whatever might be its vagaries, and in all her trials of temper, 


74 


OMBRA. 


which occurred now and then, fled lo it for soothing. The whole 
place, indeed, seemed to be mafle especiall}^ for Kate. It suited her 
to climb steep places, to run down slopes, to be always going up 
or down, with continual movement of her blood and stir of her 
spirits. She declared aloud that this was what she had wanted all 
her life— not flat parks and flowers, but the rising waves to pursue 
her when she ventured too close to them, the falling tide to open 
up sweet pools and mysteries, and penetrate her with the whole- 
some breath of the salt delightful teach. 

“ 1 don’t know how 1 have lived all this time away from it. 1 
must have been born for the sea-side!” she cried, as she walked 
on the sands with her two companions. 

Ombra, for her part, shrugged her shoulders, and drew her shawl 
closer. She had already decided that Kate was one of the race of 
extravagant talkers, who say more Ilian they feel. 

“ The sea is very nice,.” said Mrs. Anderson, who in this respect 
was not so enthusiastic as Kate. 

“Very nice! Oh! aunt, it is simply delightful! Whenever 1 
am foublesome— as 1 Rnow 1 shall be— just send me out here, 1 
may talk all the nonsense 1 like— it will never tire the sea.” 

“ Do you talk a great deal cf nonsense, Kate?” 

“lam afraid 1 do,” said the girl, with penitence. “ Not that 
1 mean it; but what is one to do? Miss Blank, my last governess, 
never talked at all, w hen she could help it, and silence is terrible 
—anything is better than that; and she said 1 chatlered, and was 
always interfering. What could 1 do? One must be occupied 
aboet something!” 

“ But are you fond of interfering, dear?”' 

“ Auntie!” said Kate, throwing back her hair*, “ if 1 tell you the 
very worst of myself, you will not give me up, or send me away? 
Thanks! It is enough tor me to be sure of that. Well, perhaps 1 
am. a little— 1 mean I like to bs doing something, or talking about 
something. 1 like to have something even to think about. You 
can’t think of Mangnall’s questions, now, can yon? or Mrs. Mark- 
ham? The village people used to be a great deal more interesting. 
1 used to like to hear all that w^as going on, and give them my ad- 
vice. Well, 1 suppose it was not very good advice. But 1 was 
not a nobody there to be laughed at, ycu know, auntie— 1 was the 
chief pe rson in the place!” 

Here Ombra laughed, and it hurt Kate’s feelings. 

“ VVhdn 1 am old enough, 1 shall be able to do as I please in 
Langton-Ccurtenay,’' sbe said. 


OMBRA. 


75 


“ Certainly, my love,’' said Mrs. Anderson, interposing; “ and 1 
hope, in the meantime, dear, you will think a great deal of your 
responsibilities, and all that is necessaiy to make you fill such a 
trying position as you ought.” 

“Trying!” said Kate, with some surprise; “do you think it 
will be trying? 1 shall like it betttr than anything. Poor old 
people, 1 must try to make it up to them, for perhaps I rather 
bothered them sometimes, to tell the truth. 1 am not like you and 
Ombra, so gentle and nice. And, then, 1 had never seen people 
behave as 1 suppose they ought.” 

“lam glad you think we behave as we ought, Kate.” 

“Oh! auntie; but then there is something about Ombra that 
makes me ashamed of myself. She is never noisy, nor dreadful, 
like me. She touches things so softly, and speaks so gently. Isn’t 
she lovely, aunt?” 

“ She is lovely to me,” said Mrs. Anderson, with a glow of 
pleasure. “ And 1 am so glad you like your cousin, Kate.” 

“ Like her! 1 never saw any one half so beautiful. She looks 
such a lady. She is so dainty, and so soft, and so nice. Could 1 
ever grow like that? Ah! auntie, you shake your head— 1 don’t 
mean so pretty, only a little more like her, little less like a — ” 

“ My dear child!” said the gratified mother, giving Kate a hug, 
though it was out of doors. And at that moment, Ombra, who 
had been in advance, turned round, and saw the hasty embrace, 
and shrugged her pretty shoulders, as her habit was. 

“ Mamma, 1 wish very much you would keep these bursts of 
affection till you get home,” said Ombra. “ The Eldridges are 
coming down the cliff.” 

“Oh! who are the Eldridges? 1 know some people called El- 
dridge,” said Kale —“ at least, 1 don’t know them, but I have 
heard — ” 

“Hush! they will hear, loo, if you don’t mind,” said Ombra. 
And Kate was silent. She was changing rapidly, even in these 
few days. Ombra, who snubbed her, who was not gracious to her, 
who gave her no caresses, had, without knowing it, attained un- 
bounded empire over her cousin. Kate had fallen in love with 
her, as girls so often do with one older than themselves. The 
difference in this case was scarcely enough to justify the sudden 
passion; but Ombra looked older than she was, and was so \ery 
different a being from Kate, that her gravity took the effect of years. 
Already this entirely unconscious influence had done more for Kate 
than all the educational processes she had gone through. It woke 


76 


OMBKA. 


the womaD, the gentlewcman, in the child, who had done, in her 
brief day, so many troublesome things. Ombia suddenly had taken 
the ideal place in her mind — she had been elevated, all unwitting 
ot the honor, to the shrine in Kate’s heart. Ever 3 dhing in her 
seemed perfection to the girl — even her name, her little semi-reproofs, 
her gentle coldness. “ If 1 could but be like Ombra, not blurting 
things out, not saying more than 1 mean, not earned atvay by 
everything that interests me,” she said, self -reproachfully, with 
rising compunction and shame for all her past crimes. She had 
never seen the enormity of them as she did now. She set up Om- 
bra, and worshiped her in every particular, with the enthusiasm 
of a fanatic. She tried to curb her once bounding steps into some 
resemblance to the other’s languid pace; and diove herself and 
Mar 3 ''anne frantic by vain endeavors to smooth her rich crisp cliest- 
nut hair into the similitude ot Ombra’s shadowy, dusky locks. 
This sudden worship was independent of all reason. Mrs. Ander- 
son herself was utterly taken by surprise by it, and Ombra had not 
as yet a suspicion of the fact; but it had already begun to work 
upon Kate. It was not in her, however, to make the acquaintance 
of this group of new people without a little stir in her pulses— all 
the more as Mrs. Eldridge came up to herself with special cordiality. 

”1 am sure this is Miss Courtenay,” she said. ” 1 have heard 
of you from my nephew and nieces at Langton-Courtenay. They 
told me you were coming to the Island. 1 hope you will like it, 
and think it as pretty as 1 do. Tou are most welcome, I am sure, 
to Bhankiin.” 

“Are you their aunt at Langton-Courtenay?” said Kate, with 
eyes w^hich grew round with excitement and pleasure. ” Oh! how 
very odd! 1 did not think anybody knew me here.” 

“lam aunt to the boys and girls.” said Mrs. Eldridge. “ Mrs. 
Hardwick is my husband’s sister. We must be like old friends, 
for the Hardwicks’ sake.” 

“ But the Hardwicks are not old friends to me.” said Kate, with 
a child’s unnecessary conscientiousness of explanation. “ Bertie 1 
know, but 1 have only seen the others twice.” 

“Oh! that does not matter,” said the rector’s wife; “ 3 mu 
must come and see me all the same.” And then she turned to Mrs. 
Anderson, and began to talk of the parish. Kate stood by and 
listened with wondering eyes as they discussed the poor folk, and 
their ways and their doings. They did net interfere in her w^ay; 
but perhaps their way was not much better, on the whcle, than 
Kate’s. She had been verv interfering, there w^as no doubt; hut 


OMBEA. 


77 


then she had interfered with everybody, rich and poor alike, and 
made no invidious distinction. She stood and listened wonder- 
ing, while the rector added his contribution about the mothers’ 
iiieetings, and the undue expectations entertained by the old women 
at the almshouses. “ We must guard against any foolish parti 
ality, or making pets of them,” Mr. Eldiidge said; and his wife 
added that Mr. Aston, in the next parish, had quite spoiled his poor 
people. “ He is a bachelor; he has nobody to keep him straight, 
and he believes all their stories. They know they have only to 
send to the vicarage to get whatever they require. When one of 
them comes into our parish, we don’t Know what to do with 
lier,” she said, shaking, her head. Kate was too much occu- 
pied in listening to all this to perceive that Ombra shrugged 
her shoulders. Her interest in the new people kept her silent, as 
they reascended the cliff, and strolled toward the Cottage; and it 
was not till the rector and his wile had turned home ward, once 
more cordially shaking hands with her, and renewing their invita- 
tion, that she found her voice. 

“Oh! auntie, how very strange — how funny!” she said. “To 
think 1 should meet the Eldridges here!” 

“ Why not the Eldridges? Have you any objection to them?” 
said Mrs. Anderson. 

“ Oh, no! 1 suppose not.” (Kate pul aside with an effort that 
audacity of Sir Herbert- Eldridge, and falscj assumption about the 
size of his park.) “ But it is so curious to meet directly, as soon 
as 1 arrive, people whom 1 have heard of — ” 

“Indeed, my dear Kate, it is not at all wonderful,” said her 
aunt, didactically. “ The world is not nearly such a big place as 
you suppose. If you should ever travel as much as we have done 
(which heaven forbid!), you would hnd that you were always meet- 
ing people you knew, in the most unlikely places. Once at Smyrna, 
when Mr. Anderson was there, a gentleman came on business, quite 
by chance, wdio was the son of one of my most intimate friends 
in my youth. Another time 1 met a companion of my childhood, 
whom 1 had lost sight of since we were at school, going up Vesu- 
vius. Our chaplain at Cadiz turned out to be a distant connection 
of my husband’s, though we knew nothing of him before. Such 
things are always happening. The world looks very big, and 3 "OU 
feel as if you must lose yourself in it; hut, on the contrary, wher- 
ever one goes, one falls upon people one knows.” 

“ But yet it is so strange almut the Hardwicks,” said Kate, per- 


78 


OMBRA. 


sisting; they are the only people- 1 evei went to see— whcm 1 was 
allowed to know.” ' 

“ How very ideasant!” gaid Mrs. Anderson. “ Kow 1 shall be 
quite easy in my mind. Your uncle must have approved ot them^ 
in that case, so 1 may allow you to associate with the Eldridges 
lieely. How \ery nice, my love, that it should be so!” 

Kate made no reply to this speech. She was not, to tell the 
truth, quite clear that her uncle approved. He had not cared to 
hear about Bertie Hardwick; he had Irowncd at the mention of 
him. “ And Bertie is the nicest— he is the cnly oDe 1 care for,” 
said Kate to herself; but she said nothiug audibly on the subject. 
To her, notwithstanding her aunt's philosophy, it seemed very 
strange indeed that Bertie Hardwick’s relatives should be the first 
to meet her in this new world. 


CHAPTER XiY. 

Kate settled down into her new life with an ease and facility 
which nobcdy had expected. She wrote to her uncle that she was 
perfectly happy; that she never could be sufficiently thankful to 
him for freeing her from the yoke ot Miss Blank, and placing her 
among people who were fond of her. “ Little fool!” Mr. Courte- 
nay muttered to himself. ” They have flattered her, I suppose.” 
This w\as the easiest and most jiatural explanation to one wdjo 
knew, or thought he knew, human nature so well. 

But Kate was not flattered, except b}^ her aunt’s caressing ways 
and habitual fondness. Nobody in the Cottage recognized her im- 
portance as the heiress of Langton-Courlenay. Here she was no 
longer first, but second — nay, third, taking her place after her 
cousin, as nature ordained. ‘‘ Ombra and Kate,” was the new 
form of her existence — first Ombra, then the new-comer, the 
youngest ot all. She was spciled as a younger child is spoiled,, 
net in any other w^ay. • Mrs. Anderson’s theory in education was 
indulgence. She did not believe in repression. She was always 
caressing, always yielding. For one thing, it was less troublesome 
than a continual struggle; but that was not her motive. She took 
high ground. ‘‘ What we have got to do is to ripen their young 
minds,” she said to the rector’s wife, who objected to her as 
” much too good,” a reproach which Mrs. Anderson liked; ” and 
it is sunshine that ripen», not an east wind!” This was almost the 
only imaginative speech she had ever made in her life, and conse- 


OMBRA. 79 

'quently she liked to repeat it. “Depend upon it, it is sunshine 
that ripens them, and not east wind!” 

“The sunshine ripens the wheat and the tares alike, as we are 
told in Scripture,” said Mrs. Eldriilge, vvith professional serious- 
ness. 

“ That shows that Providence is of my way of thinking,” said 
her antagonist. “ AVby should one cress one’s childi;en, and w^orry 
them? They will have enough of that in their lives! Besides, 1 
have practical proof on my side. Look at Ombra! There is a 
child that never was crossed since she was horn; and it 1 had 
-scolded till 1 made myself ill, do you think 1 could have improved 
upon that V 

Mrs. Eldridge stood still for a moment, not believing her ears. 
She had daughters of her own, and to have Ombra set up as a 
model of excellence! But she recovered herself speedily, and gave 
vent to her feelings in a more courteous way. 

“ Ah! it is easy to see you never had any boys,” she said, witji 
that sense of superiority which the mother of both sections of 
humanity feels over her whe has produced but one. “ Ombra, in- 
<3eed!’' Mrs. Eldridge said, withrn herself. And, indeed, it was a 
want of “proper feeling,” on Mrs. Anderson’s part, to set up so 
manifestly her owm daughter above other people’s. !She felt it, and 
immediately did what she could to atene. 

“ Bo 3 ^s, of course, are dillerenl,” she said, “ but I am sure you 
will agree with me that a poor child who has never had any one to 
love her, who has been brought up among servants, a girl w^ho is 
motherless—” 

“Oh! poor child! 1 can only say you are too good — too good! 
With such a troublesome disposition, too. 1 never could be half 
as good!” cried the rector’s wife. 

Thus Mrs. Anderson triumphed in the argument. And as it 
happened, that ripening under the sunshine was just what Kate 
wanted; the S 5 ^stem answered in the most perfect way, especially 
as a gently chilling breeze, a kind of moral east wind, extremely 
subdued, but sufficiently keen, came from Ombra, checking Kate's 
irregularities, without seeming to do so, and keeping her high 
spirit down. Ombra’s influence over her cousin increased as time 
went on. She was Kate's model of all that was beautiful and 
sweet. The girl subdued herself with all her might, and clipped 
and snipped at her own character, to bring it to the same mold as 
that of her cousin. And as such worship can not go long unnoted, 
Ombra gradually grew aware of it, and softened under its influence. 


80 


OMBRA. 


The cottifije grew very harmonious and pleasant within doors. 
AYhen Kate went to bed, the mother and daughter would still 
linger, and have little conversations about her, conversations in 
which the one still defended and the other attacked— or made a 
semblance of attacking— the new-comer; but the acrid tone had 
gone cut of Ombra’s remarks. 

“ 1 don't v/ant to say a word against Kate," she would say, 
keeping up her old role, “ 1 think there is a great deal of good 
about her; but you know we have no longer our house to our- 
selves." 

" Could we enjoy our house to ourselves, Ombra, knowing that 
poor child to have no home?" said Mrs. Anderson, with feeling. 

“ Well, mamma, the poor child has a great many advantages 
over us," said Ombra, hesitating. " 1 should like to ha7e had her 
on a visit; but to be always between you and me — " 

" INo one can be between you and me, my child." 

‘‘That is true, perhaps. But then our little house, our quiet 
life all to ourselves." 

‘‘ That was a dream, my dear — that was a mere dream of your 
own. People in out position can not have a life all to ourselves. 
We have our duties to society; and 1 have my duty to you, Ombra. 
Do you think 1 could be so selfish as to keep 3'ou altogether to 
myself, and never let you see the world, or have your chance of 
choosing some one who will take care of you better than 1 can?" 

‘‘ Please don’t," said Ombra. ‘‘ 1 am quite content with you; 
and there is not much at Bhanklin that can be called society of the 
world." 

"The world is ever^^where," said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity, 
"lam not one of those who confine the term to a certain class. 
Your papa was but a consul, but 1 have seen many an embassador 
who was very inferior to him. Slianklin is a very nice place, Om- 
bra; and the society, what there is, is very nice also. 1 like my 
neighbors very much— they are not lords and ladies, but they are 
well-bred, and some of them are well-born." 

" 1 don’t suppose we are among that number," said Ombra, with 
a momentary laugh. This was one of her pet perversities, said out 
of sheer opposition; for though she thrust the fact forward, she 
did not like it herself. 

" 1 think you are mistaken," said her mother, with a flush upon 
her face. " Your papa had very good connections in Scotland: 
and my father’s family, though it was not equal to the Courtenays, 
which my sister married into, was one of the most respectable in 


OMBEA. 


81 


the county. You aie not like Kate— you have not the pedigree 
which belongs to a house which has landed properly, but you need 
not look down upon your forefalhers tor all that.” 

“ 1 do not look down upon them. 1 only wish not to stand up 
upon them, mamma, for they are not slrong enough to bear me, I 
fear,” Ombra said, with a little forced laugh. 

“ I don’t like joking on such subjects,” said ]\lrs. Anderson. 
“But tc return to Kate. She admires you veiy, very much, my 
darling— 1 don’t wonder at that—” 

“ Silly child!” said Ombra, in a much softened tone. 

“ It shows her sense, 1 think; but it throws all the greater a re- 
sponsibility on you. Oh! my dear love, could you and 1, who are 
so happy together, dare to shut our hearts against that poor deso- 
late child?” 

Once more Ombra slightly, very slightly shrugged her shoulders; 
but she answered, 

“lam sure 1 have no wish to shut my heart against her, mam- 
ma.” 

“ For my part,” said Mrs. Anderson, “ 1 feel J can not pet her 
too much, or be too indulgent to her, to make up to her for fifteen 
years spent among strangers, with nobody to love.” 

“How odd that she should have found nobody to love!” said 
Ombra, turning away. She herself was, as she believed, “ not de- 
monstrative,” not “ effusive.” She was one of the many persons 
who think that people who do not express any feeling at all, must 
necessarily have more rtal feeling than those who disclose it— a 
curious idea, quite frequent in the world; and she rather prided 
herself upon her own resei%e. Yet, reserved as she was, she, Om- 
bra, had always found people to love her, and wdiy not Kate? This 
was the thought that passed through her mind as she gave up the 
subject; but still she had growm reconciled to her cousin, had be- 
gun to like her, and to be gratified by her eager, girlish homage. 
Kate’s admiration spoke in every look and word, in her abject sub- 
mission to Ombra’s opinion, her concurrence in all that Ombr» 
said, her imitation of everything she did. Ombra was a good 
musician, and Kate, who had no great faculty that way, got up and 
practiced every morning, waking the early echces, and getting any- 
thing but blessings from Her idol, whose bed was exactly above the 
piano on the next floor. Ombra was a great linguist, by dint of 
her many travels, and Kate sent unlimited orders for dictionaries 
and grammars to her uncle, and began to learn verbs with enthu- 
siasm. She had all the masters who came from London to Miss 


S2 


OMBEA. 


Btory’s quiet establisUment, men whose hours tvere golden, and 
whom nobody but an heiress could have entertained in such pro- 
fusion; and she applied herself with the greatest diligence to such 
branches of study as were favored by Ombra, putting her own 
private tastes aside for them wdth an enthusiasm only possible to 
first love. Perhaps Kate’s enthusiasm was all the greater because 
of the slow and rather grudging approbation which her efforts to 
please elicited. Mrs. Anderson was always pleased, always ready 
to commend and admire; but Ombra was very difficult She made 
little allowance for any weakness, and demanded absolute perfcc- 
4.ion, as mentors at the age of seventeen generally do; and Kate 
hung on her very breath. Thus she took instinctivtly the best way 
to please the only one in the house who had set up any resistance 
to her. Over the rest Kate had an ea^y victory. It was Ombra 
wire, all unawares, and not by any vktue of hers, exercised the best 
control and influence possible over the headstrong, self-opinioned 
girl. She was headstrong enough herself, and very imperfect, tut 
that did not affect her all-potent visionary sway. And nothing 
could be more regular, nothing more quiet and monotonous, than 
the routine of life in the Cottage. The coming of the masters was 
the event in it; and that was a mild kind of event, causing little 
enthusiasm. They breakfasted, worked, walked, and dined, and 
then rcse next morning to do the same thing over again. Kotwdth- 
standing Mis. Anderson’s talk about her duty to society, there 
were very few claims made upon her. She w^as not much called 
upon to fulfill these duties. Sometimes the ladies went out to the 
rectory tc tea; sometimes, indeed, Mrs. Anderson and Ombra dined 
there, but on these occasions Kate was left at heme, as too young 
for such an intoxicating pleasure. “And, besides, my darling, 1 
promised your uncle,” Mrs. Anderson would say. But Kate was 
always of the party when it was tea. There were other neighbors 
who gave similar entertainments; and before a year had passed, 
Kate had tasted the bread and butter of all the houses in the parish 
which Mrs. Anderson thought w^orthy of her friendship. Bat only 
to tea; “1 mode that condition with Mr. Courtenay, and 1 irust 
hold by it, though my heart is broken to leave you behind. If you 
knew how trying it was, my dearest child!” she would say with 
melanchcly tones, as she stepped out, wiih a shawl over her even- 
ing toilet; but these were very rare occurrences indeed. And Kate 
went to the teas, and was happy. 

How happy she was! When she was tired of the drawing-room 
(as happened sometimes), she would rush away to an odd little 


OMBKA. 


83 


loom under the leads, which was Francesca’s work-room and ora- 
tory, where the other maids were never permitted to enter, but 
which had been made tree to Mees Katla. Francesca was not like 
English servants, holding jealously by one special mUier, She was: 
cook, and she was housekeeper, but, at the same time, she wsls Mrs. 
Amlerson’s i^rivate milliner, making her dresses; and the personal 
attendant of both mother and daughter. Even Jane the house-maid, 
scorned her for this versatility ; but Francesca took no notice of 
the scorn. She was not born to confine herself within such narrow' 
limits as an English kitchen afiorded her; and she took compensa- 
tion for her unusual labors. She lectured Oinbra as we have secnr 
she interfered in a great many things which were not her business; 
she gave he: advice freely to her mistress; she was one of the 
household not less interested than the mistress herself. And when 
Katt arrived, Francesca added another branch of occupation to the 
others; or, ratlier, she revived an art which she had once exercised 
with great applause, but which had fallen into disuse since Ombra 
ceased to be a child. She became the minstrel, the improvisatore,. 
the ancient chronicler, the muse of the new-comer. When Kale 
felt the afternoon gi owing languid she snatched up a piece of work, 
and flew up the stairs to, Fiancesca’s retreat. “Tell me some- 
thing,” she woud say; and, silting at the old woman's feet, would 
forget her work, and her dullness, and everything in heaven and 
earth, in the entrancement of a tale. These were not fairy-tales, 
but bits of those stories, more strange than fairy-tales, which still 
haunt the old houses of Italy. Francesca’s tales were without end. 
She would begin upon a family pedigree, and work her way up or 
down through a few generations without missing a stitch in her 
work, or dropping a thread in her story. She filled Kate’s head 
with counts and barons, and gloomy castles and great palaces. It 
w^as an amusement which combined the delight of gossip and the 
delight of novel-reading in one. 

And thus Kate’s life ran on, as noiseless, as simple as the growth 
of a lily or a rose, with nothing but sunshine all about, warming 
her, ripening her, as her new guardian said, bringing slowly on, 
day by day, the moment of blossoming, the time of the perfect 
flower. 


84 : 


OMBRA. 


CHAPTER XV. 

It was summer when Kate arrived at the Cottage, and it was not 
till the Easter after that any disturbing influences came into the 
quiet scene. Easter was so late that year that it was almost sum- 
mer again. The rich slopes of the landslip were covered with 
starry primroses, and those violets which have their own blue-eyed 
beauty only to surround them, and want the sweetness of their 
Tarer sisters. The landslip is a kind of fairyland at that enchanted 
moment. Eveiy thing is coming-— the hawthorn, the wild loses, all 
the flowers of early summer, are, as it weie, on tiptoe, waiting for 
the hour of their call; and the primroses have come, and are crowd- 
ing everywhere, turning the darkest corneis into gardens of de- 
fight. Then there is the sea, now matchless blue, now veiled with 
mists, framing in every headland and jutting cliff, without any 
margin of beach to break its full tone of color; and above, the new- 
budded trees, the verdure that grows and opens every day, the 
si-ecks of white houses everywhere, dotted all over the heights. 
Spring, which makes everything and every one gay, which brings 
even to the sorrowful a touch of that reaction of nature that makes 
pain sorer for the moment, yet marks the new springing of life — 
fancy what it was to the sixteen-year-old girl, now first emancipated, 
^imong people who loved -her, never judged her harshly, nor fretted 
her life with uncalled-for opposition! 

Kale felt as if the primroses were a crowd of playmates, sudden- 
ly come to her out of the bountiful heart of nature. She gathered 
baskets full every day, and yet they never decreased. She passed 
her mornings in delicious idleness making them into enormous 
bouquets, which gave the Cottage something of the same aspect as 
the slopes outside. She had a taste for this frivolous but delight- 
ful occupation. 1 am free to confess that to spend hours putting 
piimroses and violets together, in the biggest flat dishes which the 
Cottage could produce, was an extremely frivolous occupation; most 
likely she would have been a great deal better employed in improv- 
ing her mind, in learning verbs, or practicing exercises, or doing 
something useful. But youth has a great deal of leisure, and this 
bright fresh girl, in the bright little hall of the Cottage, arranging 
her flcwers in the spring sunshine, made a very pretty picture. She 
put the p»rimr OSes in, with their natural leaves about them, with 
sweet hunches of blue violets to heighten the effect, touching them 


OMBRA. 


85 

as if she loved them; and, as she did it, she sung as the birds do, 
running on with unconscious music, and sweetness, and gladness. 
It was spring with her as with them. Kothing was as yet required 
■of her hut to bloom and grow, and make earth fairer. And she 
did this unavvares and was as happy over her vast, simple bouquet, 
and took as much sweet thought how to arrange it, as if that had 
Been the great aim of life. She was one with her flowers, and both 
together they belonged to spring— the spring of the year, the spring 
of life, the sweet time which comes but once, and never lasts too 
long. 

She was thus employed one morning when steps came through 
the garden, steps which she did not much heed. For one thing, 
she but half heard them, being occupied with her “ work,” as she 
called it, and her song, and having no fear that anything unwel- 
come wmuld appear at that sunny, open door. Ko one could come 
who did not know everybody in the little house, w'ho was not 
irlendly, and smiling, and kind, whose hand would not be held out. 
in pleasant familiarity. Here were no trespassers, nc strangers. 
Therefore Kate heard the steps as though she heard them not, and 
<lid not even pause to ask herself who was ceming. IShe was 
loused, but then only with the mildest expectation, wdien a shadow 
iell across her bit of sunshine. She looked up with her song still 
on her lip, and her hands full of flower's. She stepped singing. 
” Oh, Bertie!” she cried, half to heiself, and made an eager step 
forward. But then suddenly she paused — she dropped her flowers. 
Curiosity, wonder, amazement came over her face. She went on 
slowly to the doer, gazing, and questioning with her eyes. 

” Are there two of you?” she said, gravely. 1 heard that 
Bertie Hardwick was coming. Oh! which is you? Stop — don’t 
tell me. 1 am not going to be mystified. 1 can find it out for my- 
self.” 

I'liere were two young men standing in the hall who laughed, 
and blushed as they stood submitting to her inspection; but Kate 
was perfectly serious. She stood and locked at them with an un- 
moved and somewhat anxious countenance. A certain symbolical 
gravity and earnestness was in her face; but there was indeed oc- 
casion to hesitate. The two who stood before her seemed at the 
first glance identical. They had the same eyes, the same curling 
brown hair, the same features, the same figure. Gradually, how- 
ever, the uncertainty cleared away from Kate’s face. 

” It must be you,” she said, still very seriously. ” You are not 


86 


OMBRA. 


quite so tall, aud 1 think 1 remember your eyes. You must be- 
Bertie, i am sure. ’ 

VYe are both Bertie,” said the youno; man, laughing. 

“ Ah! but you must be w^^Berlie; 1 am certain of it,” said Kate. 
Not a gleam of maiden consciousness was in her; she said it with 
all simplicity and seriousness. She did not understand the color 
that came to one Beitie/s face or the smile that flashed over the 
other; and she held cut her hand to the one whom she had se- 
lected. “ 1 am so glad to see you. Come in, and tell me all about 
Langton. Dear old Langton! Though you were so disagreeable 
about the size cf the park — ” 

“ 1 will never be disagreeable again.” 

“ Oh, nonsense!” cried Kate, interrupting him. ” As if one 
could stop being anything that is natural! My aunt is somewhere 
about, and Ombra is in the drawing-room. Come in. Perhaps^ 
though, you had better tell me who this— other — gentleman — 
Why, Mr. Bertie, 1 am not quite sure, after all, which is the other 
and which is you!” 

‘‘This is my cousin, Bertie Eldridge,” said her old fi lend. ‘‘ You 
will soon know the difterence. You remember what an exemplary 
character 1 am, and he is quite the reverse. 1 am always getting 
into trouble on his account.” 

“Miss Courtenay will soon know better than to believe you,” 
said the other; at which Kate started and clapped her hands. 

” Oh! 1 know now that is not your voice. Ombra, please, here 
are two gentlemen — ” 

This is how the two cousins were introduced into the Cottage. 
They had been there before separately; but neither Mrs. Anderson 
nor her daughter knew how slight was the acquaintance which en- 
titled Kale to qualify one of the new-comers as my Bertie.” They 
were both young, not much over twenty, and their likeness w^as 
wonderful; it was, however, a likeness which diminished as they 
talked, for their expression was as different as their voices. Kate 
had no hesitation in appropriating the one she knew. 

' ” Tell me about Langton,” she said—” all about ii, I have heard 
ncthing for neaily a year. Oh! don’t laugh. 1 know the house 
stands just where it used to stand, and no one dares to cut down 
the trees. But itself— Don’t you know what Langton means ta 
me?” 

“Home?” said Bertie Hardwick, but with a little doubt in hi& 
tone. 

“Home!” repeated Kate; and then she, too, paused perjrlexed. 


OMBRA. 


87 


Kot exactly home, for there is no one iheie 1 care for— much. 
Oh! but can’t you understand? It is not home; 1 am much hap- 
pier here; but, in a kind of a way, it is me!” 

Bertie Hardwick was puzzled, and he was dazzled too. His first 
meeting with her had made no small impression upon him; and 
now Kale was almost a full-grown woman, and the brightness 
about her dazzled his eyes. 

“ it can not be you now,’' he said. “ It is— let. ’ 

Kale gave a fierce little cry, and clinched her bands. 

“ Oh! Uncle Courtenay, 1 wish 1 could just kill you!” she said, 
half to herself. 

‘‘ It is let, tor four or five years, to the only kind of people who 
can afford to have great houses now — to Mr. Eonkin, who has a 
large shop in town.” 

Kate mcaned again, but then recovered herself. 

” 1 don’t see that it matters much about the shop. 1 think, if 1 
were obliged to work, 1 should not mind keeping a shop. It 
would be such fun! But, oh! if Uncle Courtenay were onlj^ here!” 

” It is better not. There might be bloodshed, and you would re- 
gret it after,” said Bertie, gravely. 

” Don’t laugh at me; 1 mean it. And, it you won’t tell me any- 
thing about Langton, tell me about yourself. Who is lie-1 What 
does he mean by being so like you? He is differ ent when he talks;- 
“but at the first glance— Why do you allow any one to be so like 
you, Mr. Bertie? If he is not nice, as you said—” 

1 did not mean you to believe me,” said Bertie. ” He is the 
best fellow going. 1 wish 1 were half as good, or half as clever. 
He is my cousin, and just like my brother. Why, 1 am proud of 
being like him. We^re taken for each other every day.” 

” 1 should not like it,” said Kate. ” Ombra and 1 are not like 
each other, though we are cousins too. Do you know Ombra? 1 
think there never was any one like her; but, on the whole, 1 think 
it is best to be two people, not one. Are you still at Oxford?— and 
is he at Oxford? Mr. Bertie, it 1 were you, 1 don't think 1 should 
be a clergyman.” 

” Why?’ said Bertie, who, unfortunately for himself, was much 
of her mind. 

” Aou might not get a living, you know,” said Kate. 

This she said conscientiously, to prepare him for the fact that 
he was not to have Langlon-Courtenay ; but his laugh disconcerted 
her, and immediately brought before her eyes the other idea that 
his objectionable uncle, who had a park larger than Langton, might 


88 


OMBKA. 


have a too. She colored high, having begun to find out, by 

means of her education in the Cottage, when she had committed 
herself. 

“ Or,’' she went on, with all the calmness she could command, 
“ when you had a living you might not like it. The rector here— 
Oh! of course he might be youi uncle toe. He is very good, 1 am 
sure, and very nice,” said Kate, floundering, and feeling that sue 
was getting deeper and deeper into the mire; ” but it is so strange 
to hear him talk. The old women in the almshouses, and the poor 
people, and all that, and mothers’ meetings — Of couise, it must 
be very right and very good; but, Mr. Bertie, nothing but mothers* 
meetings, and old women in almshouses, fer all your life—’' 

1 suppose he has something more than that,” said Bertie, half 
aflronted, half amused. 

” I suppose so— or, at least, 1 hope so,'’ said Kate. ” Do you 
know what a mothers’ meeting is? But to go to Oxford, you 
know, lor that—! It 1 w^ere you, 1 wculd be something else. 
There must be a great many other things that you could be. Soldiers 
are not much good in time of peace, and lawyers have to tell so 
many lies— or, at least, so people say in books. 1 will tell you what 
I should advise, Mr. Bertie. Doctors are of real use in the world 
—1 would be a doctor, it 1 were you.” 

” But 1 should not at ail like to be a doctor,” said Bertie. ” Of 
all trades in the world, that is the last 1 should choose. Talk of 
mothers' meetings! a doctor is at every fool’s command, to run here 
and there; and besides— 1 think, Miss Courtenay, you have made 
a mistake.” 

‘‘lam cnly saying what 1 would do if •it was me,” said Kate,, 
softly folding her hands. ” 1 would rather be a doctor than any 
of the other things. And you ought to decide, Mr. Bertie; you 
will not be a boy much longer. You have got something here,’^ 
and she put up her hand to her own soft chin, and stroked it gently, 
‘‘ which you did not have the last time 1 saw you. Y’ou are almost 
— a man.” 

This for Bertie to hear, who was one-and-twenty, and an Oxford 
man — who had felt himself fulbgrcwn both in frame and intellect 
for these two years past! He was wroth — his cheek burned, and 
his eye flashed. But, fortunately, Mrs. Anderson interposed, and 
drew her chair toward them, putting an end to the tete d4ete, Mrs. 
Anderson was somewhat disturbed, for her part. Here were twa 
young men— two birds of prey — intruding upon the stillness which 
surrounded the nest in which she had hidden an heiress. What 


OMBRA. 


89 


Was she to do? \V"as it safe to permit them to come, fluttering, 
perhaps, the nestling? or did stern duty demand of her to close 
her doors, and shut out every chance of evil? As soon as she per- 
ceived that the conversation between Kate and her Bertie was 
special and private, she trembled and interposed. She asked the 
young man all about his family, his sisters, his stud ies-=-any thing 
she could think of— and so kept her heiress, as she imagined, safe, 
and the wild beast at bay. 

“ You are sure your uncle approved of the Hardwicks as friends 
for you, Kate?” she said that evening, when the visit had been 
talked over in full family conclave. Mrs. Anderson might make 
what pretense she pleased that they were only ordinary visitors, 
but the two Berties had made a commotion much greater than the 
rector and his wife did, or even the school boy and school-girl El- 
dridges, noisy and tumultuous as their visits often were. 

“ He made me go to the rectory with him,” said Kate, very de- 
murely. ” It was not my doing at all, he wanted me to go.” 

And, after that, what could Ihere-be to say? 


CHAPTER XYl 

The two Berties came again next day — they came with theii 
cousins, and they came without them. They joined the party from 
the Cottage in their walks, with an intuitive knowledge where they 
were going, which was quite extraordinary. They got up croquet- 
parties and picnics; they were always in attendance upon the two 
girls. Mrs. Anderson had many a thought on the subject, and 
wondered much what her duty was in such a very trying emerg- 
ency; but there were two things that consoled her— the first that it 
was Ombra who was the chief object of the two young men's ad- 
miration; and the second, that they could not possibly stay long. 
Ombra was their first object. Bhe assured herself of this with a 
warmth and pleasant glow at her heart, though she was not a 
match-making mother, nor at all desirous of “ marrying off,' and 
” getting rid of ” her only child. Besides, the young men were 
too young for anything sericus— not very long out of their teens; 
lads still under strict paternal observation and guidance; they were 
toe young to make matrimonial proposals to any one, cr to carry 
such proposals out. But, nevertheless, it Was pleasant to Mrs. 
Anderson to feel that Ombra was their first object, and that her, 
” bairn ” was ” respected like the lave.” ” Thank Heaven, Kate’s 


90 


OMBRA. 


money has nothing to do with it/' she said to herself; ana where 
was the use of sending away two handsome young men, whom the 
girls liked, and who were a change to them? Besides, they were 
going away so soon— in a foitnight— no )>aim could possibly come. 

So Mrs. Anderson tolerated them, invited them, gave them 
luncheon sometimes, and often tea, till they became as familiar 
about the house as the young Eldridges were, or any other near 
neighbors. And the girls did not have their heads at all turned by 
the new cavaliers, who were so assiduous in their attentions. Om* 
bra gently ridiculed them both, hitting them with dainty little arrows 
of scorn, smiling at their boyish ways, their impetuosity and self 
opinion. Kate, on the contiary, took them up very gravely, with 
a motherly, not to say grandmotherly interest in their future, giv- 
ing to him whom she called her old friend the very best of good 
advice. Mrs Anderson herself was much amused by this new 
development of her charge's pow’ers. She said to herself, a dozen 
limes in a day, how ridiculous it was to suppose that boys and 
girls could not be in each other’s company without falling in love 
Why, here w’ere two pairs continually in each other’s conenany, 
and without the faintest shadow ot any such folly to disturb themf 
Perhaps a sense that it was to her own perfect good management 
that this was owing, increased her satisfaction. She ‘ kept her eye 
on them/’ never oflaciously. never demonstratively, but in the most 
vigilant Way* and a certain gentle complacency mingled with her 
oontent. Had she left them to roam about as they pleased without 
her, then indeed trouble might have been looked for; but Mrs. 
Anderson was heroic, and pui aside her own ease, and was their 
companion everywhere. At the same time (but this was done with 
the utmost caution) she took a little pains to find out all about Sir 
Herbert Eldridge, the father of one ot the Berties— his county, 
and the amount of his property, and all the information that was 
possible. She breathed not a word of this to any one— not even to 
Ombra; but she put Bertie El liridge on her daughter’s side of the 
table at tea; and perhaps showed him a little preference, for her 
own part, a preference, however, so slight, so undiscernible to the 
vulgar eye, that neither of the young men found it out. She was 
very good to them, quite irrespective of their family, or the differ- 
ence in their prospects; and she missed them much w^hen they went 
away. For go away they did, at the end of tluir fortnight, leav- 
ing the girls rather dull, and somewhat satirical. It was the first 
invasion of the kind that had been made into their lite. The boys 
at the rectory were still nothing but boys; and men did not abound 


OMBEA. 91 

in the neigliborhood. Even Onibia was slightly misanthropical 
when the Bertics went away. 

“ AVhat it is to be a boy!” she said; “ they go where they like, 
these two, and arrange their lives as they please. What a fuss 
everybody makes about them; and yet they are commonplace 
enough. It they were girls like us, ho w little any one would care— ” 

“ My dear, Mr Eldridge will be a great landed proprietor, and 
have a great deal in his power,” said Mrs. Anderson. 

‘* Because he happens to have been born Sir Herbert’s son; ho 
thanks to A^m,” said Ombra, with disdain. ‘‘And most likely, 
when he is a great landed proprietor he will do nothing worth 
noticing. Ihe other is more interesting to me; he at least has his 
own way to make.” 

‘‘ 1 wonder what poor Bertie will do?” said Kate, \yith her 
grandmother air. ** 1 should not liKe to see him a clergyman. What 
Ombra says is very true, auntie. When one is a great squire, you 
know, one can t help one’s self; one’s life is all settled before one 
is born. But when one can choose what to be! Per my part,” 
said Kate, with great gravity, ‘‘lam anxious about Bertie, too. 1 
gave him all the advice 1 could— but 1 am not sure that he is the 
sort cf boy to take advice.” 

” He is older than you are, my love, and perhaps be may think 
he knows belter,” said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile. 

‘‘ But that would he a mistake,” said Kate. ” Boys havo so 
many things to do, they have no time to think. And then they 
den’t consider things as we do; and besides — But here Kate 
paused, doubling the wisdom of further explanations. What she 
had meant to say was that, having nothing to do for herself, her 
own po-ition being settled and established beyond the reach of fate, 
she had the more time to give to the concerns of her neighbors. 
But it occurred to her that Ombra had scorned Bertie Eldridge’s 
position, and might scorn hers also, and she held her peace. 

“ Besides, there is always a fuss made about them, as if they were 
better than other people. Don’t let us talk of them any more; 1 
ram sick of the subject,” said Ombra, withdrawing into a book. 
The others made no objection; they acquiesced with a calmness 
which perhaps scarcely satisfied Ombra. Mrs. Anderson declared 
openly that she missed the visitors much; and Kate avowed, with- 
out hesitation, that the boys were fun, and she was sorry that they 
were gone. But tbe chances are that it was Ombra who missed 
them most, though she professed to be rather glad than otherwise. 
” They were a nuisance, mleirupting one whatever one was doing. 


92 


OMBRA. 


Boys at that age always are a nuisance,” she said, with an air of 
severity, and she returned to all her occupations with an immense 
deal of seriousness. 

But this disturbance of their quiet aftected her in reality much, 
more than it afiected her companions — the very earnestness of her 
resumed duties testified to this. She was on the edge ot personal 
life, wondering and already longing to taste its excitements and 
troubles; and everything that disturbed the peacetul routine felt 
like that life which was surely coming, and stirred her pulses, ll 
was like the first creeping up ot the tide about the boat which ia 
destined to live upcn the waves; not enough yet to float the little 
vessel oil from the stays which hold it, but enough to rock and 
stir it^with prophetic sensation ot the fullei flood to come. 

Ombra was “ viewy,” to use a word which has become well- 
nigh obsolete. .She was full of opinions and speculations, which 
she called thought; a little temper, a good deal of unconscious 
egotism, and a reflective disposition, united to make her what is 
called a “thoughtful girl.” She mused upon herself, and upon 
the few varieties of human life she knew, and upon the world, and 
all its accidents and misunderstandings, as she had seen them, and 
upon the subjects which she read about. But partly her youth, 
and partly her character made her thoughts like the observations 
of a traveler newly entered into a strange country, and feeling 
himself capable, as superficial travelers often are, to lay bare its 
character, and fathom all its problems at a glance. Other people 
^weie, to this young philosopher, as foreigners are to the inexperi- 
enced traveler. She was very curious about them, and marked their 
external peculiarities with sufticieut quickness; but she had not 
imagination enough to feel for them or with them, or to see their 
life from their own point of view. Hei\ own standing-point was 
the only one in the world to her. She could judge others only by 
herself. 

Curiously enough, however, with this want of sympathetic im- 
agination there was combined a good deal ot lancy. Ombra had 
written little stories from her earliest youth. She had a literary 
turn. At this period of her life, when she was nearly eighteen, 
and the woild was full of wonders and delightful m3'steries to her, 
she wrote a great deal, sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose, 
and now and then asked herself whether it was not genius 
which inspired her. Some ot her poems, as she called them, had 
been printed in little religious magazines and newspapers— for Om- 
bra’s muse was as yet highly religious. She had every reason to 


O^IBEA, 93 

believe herself one ol the stais that shine unseen — a creature 
superior to the ordinary run of humanity. She read more than 
anyone she knew, and thought, or believed that she thought, deeply^ 
on a great many subjects. And one of these subjects naturally 
was that of the position of women. She was girl enough , and haii 
enough of nature in her, to enjoy the momentary brightness of the 
firmament which the^two Berties had brought. She* liked the move- 
ment and commotion as much as the others did — the walks, the 
little parties, the expeditions, and even the games; and she felt the 
absence of these little excitements when they came to an end. And 
thereupon she set herself to reflecc upon them. She carried her 
little portfolio up to a rustic seal which had been made on the cliff, 
sheltered by some ledges of rock, and covered with flowers and 
bushes, and set herself to think. And here her thoughts took that 
turn which is so natural, yet so hackneyed and conventional. JSo 
one would, in reality, have been less disposed than Ombia to give 
up a woman’s— -a lady’s privileges. To go forth into the world 
unattended, without the shield and guard of honor, which her 
semi-fcieign education made doubly necessary to her, would have 
seemed to the girl the utmost misery of desolation. She would 
have resented the need as a wrong done her by fate. But neverthe- 
less she sat up in her rocky bower, and looked over the blue sea, 
and the white headlands, and said to herself, bitterly, what a differ- 
ent lot had fallen to these two Berties from that which was her 
own. They could go where they liked, society imposed no re- 
straints upon them; when they were tired of one place, they could 
pass on to another. Heaven and earth was moved for their educa- 
tion, to make everything known to them, to rifle all the old treas- 
ure-houses, to communicate 1o them every discovery which human 
wisdom had ever made. And for what slight creatures were all 
these pains taken; boys upon whom she looked down in the fuller 
development of her womanhood, feeling them ever so much younger 
than she was,:less serious in their ideas, less able to do anything 
worth living for! It seemed to Ombra, at that moment, that there 
was in herself a power such as none of “ these boys ” liad a con- 
ception of — genius, the divinest thing in humanity! But that 
which would have been fostered and cultivated in them, would be 
quenched, or at least hampered and kept down in her. “ For 1 am 
only a woman!” said Ombra, with a swelling heart. 

All this was perfectly natural; and, at the same time, it was 
quite conventional. It was a little oveiflow of that depression, 
after a feast-, that reaction of excitement, which makes every humaa 


94 


OMBEA. 


-oreature blaspheme in one way or other. The sound of Kate’s 
voice, singing as she came up the little path to the cliff, made her 
Kjousin angry, in this state of her mind and nerves. Here was a girl 
no better tlian the boys, a creature without thought, who neither 
■desired a high destiny, nor could understand what it meant. 

“ How careless you are, Kate!” she cried, in the impulse of the 
moment. Always singing, or some nonsense — and you know 
you can’t sing! If I were as young as you^are, 1 would not lose"^ 
my time as you do! iJo you never think?” 

“Yes,” said Kate, with a meekness she nevei shoved but to 
Ombra, ” a great deal sometimes. But 1 can’t on such a morning. 
There seems nothing in all the world but sunshine and primroses,, 
and the air is so sweet! Come up to the top of the cliff, and try 
how far you can see. 1 think 1 can make out that big ship that 
kept filing so the other day. Ombra, if you don’t mind, 1 shall be 
first at the top!” 

” As if 1 cared who was first at the top! Oh! Kate, Kate, you 
are as frivolous as— as — the silly creatures in novels— or as these 
boys themselves!” 

” The boys were v.ery good boys!” said Kate. ” If they are silly, 
they can’t help it. Of course they were not as clever as you — nc 
one is; and Bertie, you know — little Bertie, my Bertie — ought to 
think more of what he is going to do. But they were very nice, as 
boys go. We can’t expect them to bo like us, Ombra, dc come 
and try a run for the top.” 

‘‘ What a foolish child you are!” said Ombra, suffering her pert* 
folio to be taken out ot her hands; and then her youth vindicated 
itself, and she started off like a young fawn up the little path. Kate 
<}ould have 'won the race had she tried, but was too loyal to out> 
«trip her princess. And thus the cobwebs were blown away from 
the young thinker’s brain. 

CHAPTER XYII. 

It will be seen, however, that, though Kate’s interpretation of 
the imperfections of ” the boys ” was more genial than thatof^Om- 
bra, yet that still there was a certain condescension in her remarks, 
and sense that she herself was older, graver, and of much more se- 
Tious stuff altogether than the late visitors. Her instinct for inter- 
ference, which had been in abeyance since she came to the Cottage, 
sprung up into full force the moment these inferior creatures came 
within her reach. She felt that it was her natural mission, the 


OMBEA. 


95 


work tor which she was qualified, to set and keep them right. This 
she had been quite unable to teel herself entitled to do in the Cot- 
tage. ]\Irs. Andersen’s indulgence and tenderness, and Ombra’s 
superiority, had silenced even her lively spirit, bhe could not ten- 
der her advice to them, much as she misht have desired to do so. 
But Bertie Hardwick was a bit ot Langton, one ot her own people^ 
a natural-born subject, tor whose advantage all her powers were- 
called forth. She thought a great deal aoout his future, and did 
not hesitate to say so. She spoke of it to Mr. Eldr idge, electrify- 
ing the excellent rector. 

“ What a trouble boys must be!” she said, when she ran irr 
wdtb some message from her aunt, and found the whcle party gath- 
ered at luncheon. There were ten Eldridges, so that the party was 
a large one; and as the holida 3 ^s were not j^et over, Tom and Her- 
bert, the two eldest, had not returned to school. “They are 
trouble, in the holidays,” said Mrs. Eldridge, with a sigh; and 
then she looked at Lucy, her eldest girl, who w^as in disgrace, and 
added seriously, “ but not more than girls. One expects girls to 
know better. To see a great creature of fifteen, nearly in long- 
dresses, romping like a Tom-boy, is enough to break one’s heart.” 

“ But 1 was tanking of the future,’^ said Kale, and she too gave 
a little sigh, as meaning that the question was a very serious one 
indeed. 

'J'he rector smiled, but Mrs. Eldridge did not join him. Some- 
how Kate’s position, which vhe rector s wife was fond of talking 
of, gave her a certain solemnity, which made up for her want of 
age and experience in that excellent wmman’s eyes. 

“ As fer us,” Kate continued very gravely. “ either we marry or 
we don’t, and that settles the question; but boys that have to work — 
Oh! when 1 think what a trouble they are, it makes me quite sad.” 

“ Poor Kate!” said the laughing rector; “ but you. have not any 
boys of your own yet, which must simplify the matter.” 

‘ KG;’" said Kate gravel}^ “ nut quite of my own; but it you con- 
sider the interest 1 take in Langton, and all that 1 have to do with 
It, you will zee that it does not make much difference. There is 
Bertie Hardwick, tor instance, Mr. Eldridge—” 

The rector interrupted her with a hearty outburst of laughter. 

“ Is Bertie Hardwick one of the boys wIioed. you regard as almost 
ycur own?” he said. 

“ \Yeli,” Kate answered stoutl 3 % “ of course 1 take a gieat inter- 
est in him, 1 am anxious about what he is to be. 1 don’t think be 
ought to go into the church; 1 have thought a great deal about iL 


^6 


OMBKA, 


and 1 don’t think that would be the best thing for him. Mr. Eld- 
ridge, why do you laugh?” 

“Be quiet, dear,” said his wife, knitting her brows at him 
significantly. Mrs. Eldridge had not a lively sense of humui; and 
she had pricked up her ears at Bertie Hardwick’s name. Already 
many a time had she regretted bitterly that her own Herbert (she 
would not have him called Bertie, like the rest) was not old enough 
to aspire to the heiress. And, as that could not be mended, the 
mention of Bertie Hardwick’s name stirred her into a state of ex- 
citement. She was not a mercenary woman, neither had it ever 
occurred to her to set up as a matchmaker; “but,” as she said, 

when a thing stares you in the face—” And then it would be 
so much for Kate’s good. 

You ought not to laugh,” said Kate, with gentle and mild re- 
proof, ‘‘ for 1 inean what 1 say. He could not live the kind of life 
thal you live, Mr. Eldridge. 1 suppose you did not like it yourself 
when you were young?” 

“My dear child, you go too far — you go too fast,” cried the 
rector, alarmed. ‘‘ Who said 1 did not like it when I was young? 
Miss Kate, though 1 laugh you must not forget that 1 think my 
work the most important work in the world.’' 

‘‘ Oh! yes, to be sure,” said Kate; ” ot course (Me knows— but 
then when you were young. And Bertie is quite young— he is not 
much more Ilian a boy; 1 can norseo bow he is to bear it — the 
ulmshbuses, and the old women, and the mothers’ meetings.” 

‘‘ You must not talk, my child, of things you don’t understand,’' 
«aid the rector, quite recovered from his laughter. He had ten 
pairs of eyes turned upon him, ten minds, to which it had never 
occurred to inquire whether there was anything more important m 
ilie World than mothers’ meetings. Perhaps had he allowed him- 
self to utier freely his own opinions, ho might have agreed with 
Kate that these details of his profession occupied too prominent a 
place in It, But he was not at liberty then to enter upon any such 
question. He had to preserve his own importance, and thal ot his 
ofllce, in presence ot his family„ The wrinkles ot laughter all 
faded from the corners of his mouth,, He put up his hand grave- 
ly, -as if to put her aside from this sacred ark which she was touch- 
ing with profane hands. 

” Kate talks nonsense sometimes, as most young persons do,” 
said Mrs. Eldridge, interfering. “But at present it is you who 
don’t understand what she is saying— or, at least, what she means 
Is somelniug quite different, She means that Bertie Hardwick 


03IBEA. 


97 


woTilcl not like such a laborious life as yours; and, indeed, what 
she says is quite true; and it you had known all at once what you 
were coming to, all the toil and fatigues— Ah! 1 don’t like to think 
of it. Yes, Kate, a clergyman’s life is a very trying life, especial- 
ly when a man is so conscientious as my husband. There are four 
mothers’ meetings in different parts of the parish; and there is the 
penny club, and the Christmas clothing, and the schools, not to 
speak of two services every Sunday, and two on Wednesdays and 
Fridays; and a curate who really does not do half so much as he 
ought. 1 do net want to say anything against Mr, Sugden, but he 
does pay very little attention to the almshouses; and as^for the in- 
fant-school — ” 

“ My dear, the children are present,” said the rector. 

“ 1 am very well aware of that, Fred; but they have ears and 
oyes as well as the rest of us. After all, the infant-school and the 
8unday-schools are not very much to be left to one; and there are 
only ten old people in the almshouses. Arid, 1 must say, my dear, 
considering that Mr. Sugden is able to walk a hundred miles a day, 
1 do believe, when he has an object—” 

“Hush! hush!” said the rector, “we must not enter into per- 
sonal discussions. He is fresh from University life, and has not 
quite settled down as yet to his work. University life is very dif- 
ferent, as 1 have often told you. li takes a man some time to get 
accustomed to change his habits and ways of thinking. Sugden is 
rather lazy, 1 must say — he does not mean it, but he is a little care- 
less. Did 1 tell you that he had forgotten to put down Farmer 
Thompson’s name in the Easter list? It was a trifle, you know — 
it really was not of any consequence; but still, he forgot all about 
it. it is the negligent spirit, not the thing itself, that troubles me.” 

“ A trifle!” said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly; and they entered so 
deeply into the history of this offense, that Kate, whose attention 
had been wandering, had to state her errand, and finish her lunch- 
eon without further reference to Bertie. But her curiosity was 
roused; and when, some time after, she met Mr. Sugden, the 
curate, it was not in her to refrain from further inquiries. This 
time she was walking with her aunt and cousin, and could not 
have everything her own way; but the curate was only too well 
pleased to join the little party. He was a young man, tall and 
strong, looking, as Mrs Rector said, ^s if he could walk a hundred 
miles a day; and his manner was not that ct one who would ue 
guilty of indolence. He was glad to join the party from the cot- 
tage, because he was one of those who had been partially enslaved 


98 


6mbra. 


by Ombra —partially, foi be was prudent, and knew that falling in 
love was not a pastime to be indulged in by a curate; but yet suf- 
ficiently to be roused by the sight of her into sudden anxiety ta 
look and show himself at his best. 

“ Ask him to tea, auntie, please/' said Kate, whispering, as the 
curate divided the party, securing himself a place by the side of 
Ombra. Mrs. Anderson looked at the girl with amazement. 

“ 1 have no objection," she said, wondering. “ But why?" 

" Oh I never mind why — to please me," said the girl. Mrs. An- 
derson was not in the habit of putting herself into opposition; and 
besides, the little languor and vacancy caused by the departure of 
the Berties had not yet quite passed away. She gave the invitation 
with a smile and a whispered injunction: ** But you must promise 
not to become one of the young ladies who worship curates, Kate." 

" Me!" said Kate, with indignation, and without grammar; and 
she gazed at the big figure before her with a certain friendly con- 
tempt. Mr. Sugden lived a dull life, and he was glad to meet 
with the pretty Ombra, to walk by her side, and talk to her, or hear 
her talk, and even to be invited to tea. His fall from the life of 
Oxford to the life of this little rural parish had been sudden, and it 
had been almost more than the poor young fellow's head could bear. 
One day surrounded by young life and energy, and all the merri- 
ment and commotion of a large community, where there was much 
intellectual stir, to which his mind, fortunately for himself, re- 
sponded but faintly, and a great deal of external activity, into 
which he had entered with all his heart; and the next day to be 
dropped into the gray, immovable atmosphere of rural existence — 
the almshouses, the infant-schools, and Farmer Thompson! The 
young man had not recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, 
as it seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. And it never oc- 
curred to anybody 'what a great change it was, except the rector, 
who thought it rather sinful that he could not make up his mind 
to it at once. Therefore, though he had a chop indifferently cooked 
waiting for him at home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Ander- 
son’s bread and butter. Ombra was very pretty, and it was a va- 
riety in the monotonous tenor of his life. 

When they had returned to the cottage, and had seated them- 
selves to the simple and lady-like meal, which did not much con- 
tent his vigorous young appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be drawn 
out without quite understanding the process. The scene and cir- 
cumstances were quite new to him. There was a feminine per- 
fume about the place which subdued and fascinated him. Every- 


OMBKA. 


99 


tiling was pleasant to look at— even the mother, who was still a 
handsome woman; and a certain charm stole over the curate, 
though the bread and butter was scarcely a satisfactory meal. 

“ 1 hope you like Shanklin?’' Mrs. Anderson said, as she poured 
him out his tea. 

“ Ot course Mr. Sugden must say he dues, whether or not,” said 
Ombra. “ Fancy having the courage to say that one does not like 
Shanklin before the people who are devoted to it! But speak 
frankly, please, for 1 am not devoted to it. 1 think it is dull; it is 
too pretty, like a scene at the opera. Whenever you turn a corner, 
you come upon a picture you have seen at some exhibition. 1 
should like to hang it up on the wall, but not to live in it. Kow, 
Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind.” 

” 1 never was at an exhibition,” said Kate,“ nor at the opera. 1 
never saw such a lovely place, and you know you don’t mean it, 
Ombra— you, who are never tired ot sketching or writing poetry 
about it.” 

“ Dees Miss Anderson write poetry?” said the curate, somewhat 
staitled. He was frightened, like most men, by such a discovery. 
It froze the words on his lips. 

** No, no— she onl}’ amuses herself,” said the mother, w’ho knew 
What the effect of such an announcement was likely to be; upon 
which the poor curate drew breath. 

” Shanklin is a very pretty place,” he said. ‘‘ Perhaps I am not 
so used to pretty places as 1 ought to be. 1 come from the Fens 
myself. It is hilly here, and there is a great deal of sea; but 1 don't 
think,” he added, with a little outburst, and a painful conscious- 
ness that he had not been eloquent — ” 1 don’t think there is very 
much to do.” 

” Except the infant-schocls and the alrrshouses,” said Kate. 

“ Good Lord!” said the poor young man, driven to his wits’ end; 
and then he grew very red, and coughed violently, to cover, if pos- 
sible, tne ejaculation intc which he had been betrayed. Then he 
did his best to correct himself, and put on a professional tone, 
‘•There is always the work of the parish tor me,* he said, try- 
ing to look assured and comfortable; ” but 1 was rather think- 
ing of you ladies; unless you are fond ot yachting— but 1 sup- 
pose everybody is who lives in the Isle of Wight!” 

” Not me,” said Mrs. Anderson. ‘‘ 1 do not like it, and I 
wculd not trust my gins, even if they had a chance, which 
they have not. Oh! no; we content ourselves with a very quiet 


100 


OMBKA. 


life. They have their studies, and we do what we can in the 
palish. 1 assure you a school-feast is quite a great event.'’ 

Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it; he had not been 
brought up to it; he had been trained to a lively life, full of variety, 
and amusement, and exercise. He tried to say faintly that he was 
sure a quiet life was the best, tut the words nearly choked him, 
1 1 was now hencefcrward his role to say that sort of thing, and how 
was hs to do it, pcor young muscular, untamed man! He gasped 
and drank a cup of hot tea, which he did not want, and which 
made him very uncomfortable. Tea and bread and butler, and a 
school-feast by w^ay of excitement! Ihis was what a man was 
brought to, when he tcok upon himself the office of a priest. 

“ Mr. Sugden, please tell me,” said Kale, “ for 1 want to know 
—is it a very great change after Oxford to come to such a place as 
this?” 

” Oh, Lord!” cried the poor curate again. A groan burst from 
him in spite ot himself. It was as it she had asked him if the 
change was great from the top of an Alpine peak to the bottom of 
a crevasse. “ 1 hope ycu’ll excuse me,” he said, with a burning 
blush, turning to Mrs. Anderson, and wiping the moisture from his 
foreliead. ” It was such an awfully rapid change for me; 1 have 
not' had time to get used to it. 1 come out with words I ought not 
to use, and feel inclined to do ever so many things 1 oughtn’t ta 
do— 1 know 1 oughtn’t; but, then, use, you know, is second nature, 
and I have not had time to get out of it. If you knew how awfully 
sorry 1 was — 

“ There is nothing to be awfully sorry about,” said Mrs. Ander- 
son, with a smile. But she changed the conversation, and she was 
rather severe upon her guest when he went away. “It is clear 
that such a young man has no business in the Church,” she said, 
with a sharpness quite unusual to her. “ How can he ever be a 
good clergyman, when his heart is so little in it? 1 do not approve 
of that sort of thing at all.’" 

“ But, auntie, perhaps he did not want to go into the Church,” 
said Kate; and she felt more and more certain that it was not the 
thing for Bertie Hardwick, and that he never would take such a 
step, except in defiance of her valuable advice. 


OMBRA. 


101 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

Circumstances after this threw Air. Sngden a great deal 
in their way. He lived in a superior sort ot cottage in tLe 
village, a cottage which had been the village doctor’s, and had 
been given up by him only when he built that house on the 
Undercliff, which still shone so white and new among its half- 
grown trees. Jt must be understood that it Wcts the bhanklin of 
the past of which we speak — not the little semiuiban place with 
lines of new villas, which now bears that name. The mistress of 
the house was the dress-maker of the district as well, and much 
became known about, her lodger by her means. She was a person 
who had seen better days, and who had taken up dress-making at 
first only for her own amusement, she informed her customers, and 
consequently she had very high manners, and a great deal of gentil- 
ity, and frightened her humble neighbors. Her house had two 
stories, and was very respeciable. It could not help having a great 
tree ot jasmine all over one side, and a honeysuckle clinging about 
the porch, tor such decorations are inevitable in the Isle of Wight; 
but still there were no more flowers than 'were absolutely necessary,, 
and that of itself was a distinction. The upper floor was Mr. Sug- 
den’s. He had two windows in his sitting-room, and one in his 
bedroom, which commanded the street and all that ivas going on 
there; and it was the opinion cf the rector’s wife that no mao could 
desire more cheerful rooms. He saw everybody who went oi came 
from the rectory. He could moralize as much as he pleased upon 
the sad numbers who frequented the Red Lion. He could see the 
wneelwright’s shop, and the smithy, and 1 don’t know how many 
more besides. Prom the same window he could even catch a 
glimpse of the rare tourists or passing travelers who came to see 
the Chine. And wnat more would the young man have? 

Miss Richardson, the dress- maker, had many little jobs lo do for 
Kale. Sometimes she tftok it into her head to have .a dress made 
off more rapidly than Maryanne’s leisurely fingers could do it; 
sometimes she saw a fashion hook in Miss Richardson’s window 
lo which she took a sudden fancy; so that there was a great deal 
of intercourse Kept up between the dress-maker’s house and the 
Cottage. This did not mean that Kate was much addicted to dress, 
or extravagant in that point; hut sne was fanciful and fond cf 
changes— and Maryanne, having very little to do, became capabl 


102 


OMBRA. 


of doing less and less every day. Old Francesca made all Mrs. 
Anderson’s gowns and most of Ombra’s, besides her other W'ork; 
but Maiyanne, a free-born Briton, was not to be bound to any such 
slavery. And thus it happened that Miss Richardson went often 
to the Cottage. She wore what was then called a cottage-bonnet, 
surrounding, with a border of clean quilted net, her prim but 
pleasant face, and a black merino dress with white collar and cuffs; 
she looked, in short, very much as a novice sister would look now; 
but England w^as very Protestant at that moment and there were 
no bisters in Miss Richardson’s day. 

“My young gentleman is geting a little better used to things, 
thank you, ma’am,” said Miss Richardson. “ Since he has been a 
little more taken out of an evening, you and other ladies inviting 
him to tea, you can’t think what a load is lifted ofl: my mind. The 
way he used to walk about at first, crushing over my head till I 
thought the house would come down! They all feel it a bit, ma’am, 
do my gentlemen. The last one was a sensible man, and fond of 
reading, but they ain’t all fond of reading — more’s the pity! I’ve 
been out in the world myself, and I know how cold it strikes 
coming right into the country like this.” 

“ But he has his parish work,” said Mrs. Anderson, with a little 
severity. 

“That is what Mrs. Eldridge says; but, bless you; what’s his 
parish work to a young gentleman like that, fresh from college? 
He don’t know what to say tc the folks— he don’t know what to 
do with them. Bless your heart,” said Miss Richardson, warming 
into excitement, “ what should he know about a poor woman’s 
troubles with her family— or a man's either, for that part? He 
just puts his hand in his pocket; that’s all he does. * I’m sure I’m 
very sorry for you, and here’s half a crown,’ he says. It’s natural, 
i’d have done it myself when 1 was as young, before 1 knew the 
world, if i’d had the half-crown; and he won’t have it long, if he 
gees on like this.” 

“ It is very kind of him, and very nice of him,” said Kate. 

“ Yes, miss, it’s kind in meaning, bu^it don't do any good. It’s 
just a way of getting rid of them, the same as sending them oft 
altogether. There ain’t one gentleman in a thousand that under- 
stands poor folks. Give them a bit of money, and get quit of 
them; that’s what young men think; but poor folks want some- 
thing different. I've nothing to say against Greek and Latin; 
they’re all very fine, 1 don’t emubt, but they don’t tell you how to 
manage a parish. You can’t, you know, unless you’ve seen life a 


OMBRA. 


103 


bit, and understand folk's ways, and how things strike them. Turn 
round, if you please, miss, till 1 fit it under the arm, It’s just like 
as if Miss Ombra there should think she could make a dress, be- 
cause she can draw a pretty figure. You think you could, miss?— 
then just you try, that’s all 1 have got to say. The gentlemen 
think like you. They read their books, and they think they under- 
stand folk’s hearts, but they don’t, any more than you know how 
to g,ore a skirt. Miss Kate, if you don’t keep still, 1 can’t get on. 
The scissors will snip you, and it would be a thousand pities to 
snip such a nice white neck. Now turn round, please, and show 
the ladies. There’s something that fits, I’m proud to think. I’ve 
practiced my trade in town and all about; 1 haven’t taken it out of 
books. Though you can draw beautiful. Miss Ombra, you couldn’t 
make a fit like that.” 

Miss Richardson resumed, with pins in her mouth when she had 
turned Kate round and round, “ There’s nobody 1 pity in all the 
world, ma’am, as 1 pity those young gentlemen. They’re vtiy 
nice, as a rule> they speak civil, and don’t give more trouble than 
they can help. Toss their boots about the room, and smoke their 
cigars, and make a mess — that’s to be looked foi ; but civil and 
nice-spoken, and don’t give trouble when they think of it. But, 
bless your heart, it 1 had plenty to live on, and no wcrk to do but 
to Icok out of my window and take walks, and smoke my cigar, 
I’d kill myself, that’s what I’d do! "Well, there’s the schools and 
things; but he can’t be poking among the babies more than halt an 
hour or so now and then; and 1 ask you, ladies, as folks wdth some 
sense, what is that young gentlemen to da in a mothers’ meeting? 
No, ma’am, ask him to tea if you’d be his friend, and give him a 
]iltle interest in his life. They didn’t ought to send young gentle- 
men like that into small country parishes. And if he falls in lo^e 
with one of your young ladies, ma’am, none the worse.” 

“ But suppose my young ladies would have nothing to say tc 
him?” said Mrs. Anderson, smiling upon her child, for whom, 
surely, she might expect a hlghei fate. As ter Kate, the heiress, 
the prize, such a thing was not to be thought of. But Kate was 
only a child; she did not occur to the mother, who even in her 
heiress-ship saw nothing which could counterbalance the superior 
attractions of Ombra. 

Miss Richardson took the pins out of her mouth, and turned 
Kate round again, and nedded half a dozen times in succession her 
knowing head. 

” Never mind, ma’am,” she said, ” never mind— none the worse, 


104 


OMBEA. 


say 1. Them young genlleraeu ought to learn that they cauT have 
the first they fancy. Does ’em good. Men are all a deal too con- 
fident nowadays — though I’ve seen the time! But just you ask 
him to tea, ma’am, if you’d stand his tiiend, and leave it to the 
young ladies to rouse him up. Better folks than him has had their 
hearts broken, and done 'em goodl” 

It was not with these bloodthirsty intentions that Mrs. Anderson 
adopted the dress- maker’s advice; but, notwithstanding, it came 
about that Mr. Bugden was asked a great many times to tea. He 
began to grow familiar about the house, as the Berties had been; 
to have his corner, where he always sat; to escort them in their 
w^alks. And it can not be denied that this mild addition to the in- 
terests of life roused him much more than the almshouses and the 
infant schools. He wrote home, to his paternal house in the Fens, 
that he was beginning, now he knew it better, as his mother had 
prophesied, to take a great deal more interest in the parish; that 
there were some nice people in it, and that !t was a privilege, after 
alb to live in such a lovely spot! This was the greatest relief to 
the mind of his mother, who was afraid, at the first, that the boy 
was not happy. “Thank heaven, he has found out now that a 
life devoted to the service of his Maker is a happy life!'’ that pious 
woman said, in the fullness of her heart; not Knowing, alas! that it 
was devotion to Ombra which had brightened his heavy existence. 
He fell in love gradually, before the eyes of the older people, who 
looked on with more amusement than any graver feeling; and, with 
a natural malice, everybody urged it on — from Kate, who gave up 
her seat by her cousin to the curate, up to Mr. Eldridge himself, 
who would praise Ore bra’s beauty, and applaud her cleverness with 
a twinkle in his eye, till the gratified young man felt ready to go 
through fire and water for his chief. The only spectators who 
were serious in the contemplation of this little tragi-comedy were 
Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Eldridge, of whom one was alarmed, and 
the other disapproying. Mrs. Anderson uttered little words of 
warning, from time to time, and did all she could to keep the two 
apart; but then her anxiety was all for her daughter, who per- 
haps was the sole person in the parish unaware of the fact of Mr. 
Sugden’s devotion lo her. When she had made quite sure of this, 
1 am afraid she was not very solicitous about the curate’s possible 
heart-break. He was a natural victim; it was scarcely likely that 
he could escape that heart-break sooner or later, and in the mean- 
time he was happy. 

“ IVhat can I do?” she said to the rector's wife. “ I can not 


OMBEA, 


105 


toibkl him my house; and we have never given him any encour- 
agement— in that way. What can 1 do?” 

” If Omhra does not care for him, 1 think she is behaving very 
badly,” said Mrs. Eldridge. ” 1 should speak to her, if 1 were in 
your place. 1 never would allow my Lucy to treat any man so. 
Of course, if she means to accept him, it is a different matter; but 1 
should certainly speak to Ombra, it 1 were in your place.” 

” The child has not an idea of anything of the kind,” said Mrs. 
Andersonj faltering. ‘‘ Why should 1 disturb her unconscious- 
ness?” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Eldridge, ironically, ” I am sure 1 beg your 
pardon. 1 don’t, for my part, understand the unconsciousness of 
a gill of nineteen!” 

“Not quite nineteen,” said Ombra’s mother, with a certain 
humility. 

“ A gill old enough to be married,” said the other, vehemently. 
“ 1 was married myself at eighteen and a half. I don’t understand 
It, and 1 don’t approve of it. If she doesn’t know, she ought to 
know; and unless she means to accept him, 1 shall always say she 
has treated him very badly. I would speak to her, it it were 1, 
before another day had passed.” 

Mrs. Anderson was an impressionable woman, and though she 
resented her neighbor’s interference, she acted upon her advice. 
She took Ombra into her arms that evening, when they were alone, 
in the favorite hour of talk which they enjoyed after Kate had 
gone to bed. 

“ My dailing!” she said, “ 1 want to speaK to you. Mr. Sugden 
has taken to coming very often— we j,re never free of him. Per- 
haps it would be better not tc let him come quite so much.” 

“ 1 don’t see how we can help it,” said Ombra, calmly; “ he is 
dull, he likes it; and 1 am sure he is very inoffensive. 1 do not 
mind him at all, for my part.”^ 

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, faltering; “but then, per- 
haps, he may mind you.” 

“ In thai case ne would stop atvay,” said Ombra. with perfect 
unconcern. 

“You don't understand me, dear. Perhaps he thinks of you 
too much; perhaps he is coming too often for his own good.” 

“Thinks of me — loo much!” said Ombra with wide-opened 
eyes, and then a passing blush came over her face, and she 
laughed. ‘ He is very careful not to show any signs of it, then, * 


106 


OMBEA. 


she said. “ Mamma, this is not your idea. Mrs. Eldridge has put 
it into your head.” 

“Well, my darling, but if it were true—” 

“ Why, then, send him away,” said Ombra, laughing. “But 
hew very silly! Should not 1 have found it out if he cared for 
me? If he is in love with any one, it is with you.” 

And alter this what could the mother do? 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Ombra was a young woman, as we have said, full of fancy, but 
without any sympathetic imagination. She had made a picture to 
herself— as was inevitable — of what the lover would be like when 
he first approached her. It was a fancy sketch entirely, not even 
founded upon observation of others. She had said to herself that 
love would speak in his eyes, as clearly as any tongue could reveal 
it; she had pictured to herselt the kind of chivalrous devotion which 
belongs to the age of romance— or, at least, which is taken for 
granted as having belonged to it. And as she was a girl who did 
not talk very much, nor enter into any exposition of her feelings, she 
had cherished the ideal very deeply in her mind, and thought over 
it a great deal. She could not understand any type of love but 
this one; and consequently poor Mr. Sugden, who did not possess 
expressive eyes, and could not have talked with them to save his 
life, was very far from coming up to her ideal. When her mother 
made this suggestion, Ombra tnought over it seriously, and thought 
over him who was the subject of it, and laughed within herself at 
the want of perception which associated Mr. Sugden and lore to- 
gether. “ Poor dear mamma,” she said in her heart, “ it is so long 
since she had anything to do with it, she has forgotten what it 
looks like.” And all that day she kept laughing to herself over 
this strange mistake; for Ombra had this other peculiarity of self- 
contained peoifie, that she did not care much for the opinion of 
others. What she made out for herself, she believed in, but not 
much else. Mr. Sugden was very good, she thought— kind to 
everybody, and kind to herself, always willing to be of service; but 
to speak of him and love in the same breath! He was at the Cot- 
tage that same evening, and she watched him with a little amused 
curiosity. Kate gave up the seat next to her to the curate, and 
Ombra smiled secretly, saying to herself that Kate and her mother 
were in a conspiracy against her. And the curate looked at her 


OMBRA. 


107 


with diill, light blue eyes, which were dazzled and abashed, not 
made expressive and eloquent by feeling. He approached awk- 
wardly, with a kind of terror. He directed his conversation chiefly 
to Mrs. Anderson, and did not address herself directly for a whole 
half hour at least. The thing seemed simply comical to Ombra. 
“ Come here, Mr. Sugden,” she said, when she changed her seat 
after, tea calling him after her, “ and tell me all about yesterday, 
and what you saw anti what you did.'' She did this with a little 
bravado, to show the spectators she did not care; but caught a 
meaning glance from Mrs. Eldridge, and blushed, in spite of her- 
self. So, then, Mrs. Eldridge thought so too! How foolish people 
are! “ Plere is a seat for you, Mr. Sugden," said Ombra, in de- 
fiance. And the curate, in a state of perfect bliss, went after her, 
to tell her ot an expedition which she cared nothing in the world 
about. Heaven knows what more be'sides the poor young fellow 
might have told her, for he was deceived by her manner, as the 
others were, and believed in his soul that, if never before, she had 
given him actual “ encouragement to-night. But the rector’s 
wife came to the rescue, for she was a virtuous woman, who could 
not see harm done before her very eyes without an attempt to in- 
terfere. 

“ 1 hope you see what you are doing,” she whispered severely in 
Ombra’s ear before she sat down, and fixed her eyes upon her with 
all the solemnity of a judge, 

Oh! surely, dear Mrs. Eldridge—-! want to hear about this ex- 
pedition to the fleet,” said Ombra. ‘‘ Pray, Mr. Sugden, begin.” 

' Poor fellow! the curate was not eloquent, and to feel his rector- 
ess beside him, noting all his words, took away frono him what 
little faculty he had. He began his stumbling, uncomfortable 
story, while Ombra sat sweetly in her corner, and smiled and 
knitted. He could look at her when she was not looking at him; 
and she, in defiance of all absurd theories, was kind to him, and 
listened, and encouraged him to go on 

” Tes. I dare say nothing particular occurred,” Mrs. Eldridge 
said at last, with some impatience. ” ‘You went over the ‘ Royal 
Sovereign,' as everybody does. I don’t wonder you are at a loss 
lor words to describe it. It is a fi.ne sight, but tlreadfully hack- 
neyed. I wonder very much, Ombra, you never were there.” 

But for that reason Mr. Sugden’s account is very interesting 
to me,” said Ombra, giving him a still more encouraging look. 

” Dreadful little flirt!” Mrs. Eldridge said to herself, and with 
virtuous resolution, went on— ‘ The boys, 1 suppose, will go, too. 


108 


OMBKA. 


on their way here. They are coming in Bertie’s new yacht this 
time. 1 am sure 1 wisB yachts had never been invented. 1 sup- 
pose these two will keep me miserable about the children from the 
moment they reach Sandown pier.” 

‘‘ Which two?” said Ombra. It was odd that she should have 
asked the question, for her attention had at once forsaken the cu- 
rate, and she. knew exactly who was meant. 

‘‘Oh! the Berties, of course. Did not you know they were 
coming?” said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘‘llike the boys very well — but 
their yacht! Adieu to peace for me from the hour it arrives! 1 
know 1 shall be put down by everybody, and my anxieties laughed 
at; and you girls will have your heads turped, and think of noth- 
ing else.” 

” The Berties!— are they coming?” cried Kate, making a spring 
toward them, ”1 am so glad! When are they coming? — and 
what was that about a yacht? A yacht! — the very thing one 
wanted — the thing 1 have been sighing, dying for! Oh! you dear 
Mrs. Eldridge, tell me when they are coming. And do you think 
they will take us out every day?” 

There!” said the rector’s wife, with the composure of despair. 
” 1 told you how it would be. Kate has lost her head already, and 
Ombra has no longer any interest in your expedition. Mi. Sugden. 
Are you fond of yachting too? Well, thank Providence you are 
strong, and must be a good swimmer, and w on’t let the chiidien be 
drowned, if anything happens. That is the only comfort 1 have 
had since 1 heard of it. 1 hey are ceming to-morrow — we had a 
letter this morning— both together, as usual, and wasting their time 
in the same way. 1 disapprove of it very much, for my part. A 
thing which may do very well tor Bertie Eldridge, with the family 
property, and title, and everything coming lo him, is very unsuit- 
able tor Bertie Hardwick, who has nothing. But nobody will see 
it in that light but me.” 

” 1 must talk to him about it,” said Kate, thoughtfully. Ombra 
did not say anything, but, as the rector’s wife remarked, she had 
no longer any interest in the curate’s narrative. She was not an- 
civil; she listened lo what he said afterward, but it fell flat upon 
her, and she asked him it he knew the Berties, and if he did not 
think y^achting would be extremely pleasant? It may be forgiven 
lo him if we record that Mr, Sugden went home that night with a 
hatred of the Berties, which was anything but Christiau-like. He 
(almost) wished the yacht might founder before it reached Sandown 
Bay; he wished ihey might be driven out to sea, and get sick of 


OMBRA. 


109 


it, and abandon all thoughts of the Isle of Wight. Of course tUey 
were fresh-water sailors, who had never known what a gale was, 
he said contemptuously in his heart. 

But nothing happened to the yacht. It arrived, and everything 
came true which Mrs. Eldridge had predicted. The young people 
in the village and neighborhood lost their heads. There was noth- 
ing but voyages talked about, and expeditions here and there. They 
circumnavigated the island, they visited the Needles, they went to 
Spithead to see the fleet, they did everything which it was alarming 
and distressing for a mother to see her children do. And some- 
times, which was the greatest wonder of all, she was wheedled into 
going with them herself. Sometimes it was Mrs. Anderson who 
was the chaperon of the merry party. The Beities themselves were 
unchanged. They were as much alike as ever, as inseparable, as 
friendly and nleasant. They even recommended themselves to the 
curate, though he was very reluctant to be made a triend of against 
his will. As soon as they arrived, the wings of life seemed to be 
freer, the wheels rolled easier, everything went faster. The very 
sun seemed to shine more brightly. The whole talk of the little 
community at ShanKlin was about the yacht and its masters. They 
met perpetually to discuss this subject. The croquet, the long 
walks, all the inland amusements, were intermitted. “ Where shall 
we go to-morrow?” they asked each other, and discussed the winds 
and the tides like ancient mariners. In the presence of this excite- 
ment, the gossip about Mr. Sugden died a natural death. The 
curate was not less devoted to Ombra. He haunted her, if not 
night and day, at least by sea and land, which had become the most 
appropriate phraseology. He kept by her in every company ; but 
as the Berties occupied all the front of the picture, there was no 
room in any one’s mind for the curate. Even Mrs. Anderson for- 
got about him— she had something more important on her mind. 

For that was Ombra’s day of triumph and universal victory. 
Sometimes such a moment comes even to girls who are not much 
distinguished either for their beauty or qualities of any kind- 
girls who sink into the second class immediately after, and carry 
wjih them a sore and puzzled consciousness of undeserved down, 
fall. Ombra was at this height of youthful eminence now. The 
girls round her were all younger than she, not quite beyond the 
nursery, or, at least, the school room. With Kate and Lucy EI- 
dridge by her, she looked like a half-opened rose, in the perfection 
of bloom, beside two unclosed buds — or such, at least, was her 
aspect to the young men, who calmly considered the younger girls 


110 


OMBEA* 


as sisters and playmates, but looked up to Ombra as tbe ideal 
maiden, the heroine ot youthtul fancy. Perhaps, had they been 
older, this fact might have been different; but at the age of the 
Beities sixteen was naught. As they were never apart, it was diffi- 
cult to distinguish the sentiment of these young men, the one from 
the other. Bui the only conclusion to be drawn by the spectators 
was that both of them were at Umbra’s feet. They consulted hei 
obsequiously about all their movements. They caught at every 
hint of her wishes with the eagerness of vassals longing to please 
their mistress. They vied with each other in arranging cloaks and. 
cushions for her. 

Their yacht was called the “ Shadow;” no one knew why, ex, 
cept, indeed, its owners themselves, and Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. 
Eldridge, who made a shrewd guess. But this was a very difter- 
ent matter from tire curate’s untold love. The rector’s wife, ready 
as she was to interfere, could say nothing about this. She would 
not, for the world, put such an idea into the girl’s head, she said. 
It was, no doubt, but a passing fancy, and could come to nothing; 
fcr Bertie Hardwick had nothing to marry on, and Bertie Eld- 
ridge would never be permitted to unite himself to Ombra Ander, 
son, a girl without a penny, whose father had been nothing more 
than a consul. 

‘‘ The best thing we can wish for her is that they may soon go 
away; and 1, for one, will never ask them again,” said Mrs. El* 
dridge, with deep concern in her voice. The rector thought less of 
it, as was natural to a man. He laughed at the whole business. 

” If you can’t tell which is the lover, the love can’t be very dan- 
gerous,” he said. Thus totally ignoring, as his wife felt, the worst 
difficulty of all. 

” It might be both,” she said solenlnly; ” and if it is only one,, 
the other is aiding and abetting. It is true 1 can’t tell which it is;, 
but if 1 were Maria, or if 1 were Annie—” 

” Thank Heaven you are neither,” said the rector; “and with 
ten children of our own, and your nervousness in respect to them, 
1 think you have plenty on your shoulders, without taking up 
either Annie’s or Maria’s share.” 

” 1 am a mother, and I can’t help feeling for other mothers,” 
said Mrs, Eldridge, who gave herself a great deal of trouble un- 
necessarily in this way. But she did not feel for Ombra s mother 
in these perplexing circumstances. She was angry with Ombrsi. 
It was the girl’s fault, she felt, that sha was thus dangerous tc 
other women’s toys. Why should she, a creature of no account. 


OMBRA. 


Ill 


luru the heads of the young men? “ She is not very pretty, even 
—not half so pretty as her cousin will he, who is worth thinking 
of,” she said, in her vexation. Any young man would have been 
fully justified in falling in love with Kate. i3ut Ombia, who was 
nobodyl It was too bad, she fell; it was a spite of fate! 

As tor Mrs, Anderson, she. warned by the failure of her former 
suggestions, said nothing to her child of the possibilities that seemed 
to be dawning upon her; but she thought the more. She watched 
the Berties with eyes which, being more deeply interested, were 
keener and clearer than anybody else’s eyes; and she drew her otvm 
ccnclusions with a heart that beat high, and sometimes would flut- 
ter, like a girl’s, in her breast. 

Ombra accepted very graciously all the homage paid to her. 
She felt the better and the happier for it, whatever her opinion 
as to its origin might be. She began to talk more, being ccnfi- 
dent of the applause of the audience. In a hundred little subtle 
ways she was influenced by it, brightened, and stimulatea. Did 
she know why? Would she choose as she ought? Was it some 
superficial satisfaction with the admiration she was receiving that 
moved her, or some dawning of deeper feeling? Mrs. Anderson 
watched her child with the deepest anxiety, but she could not an- 
swer these questions. The merest stranger knew as much as she 
did what Cmbra would do or say. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Things went on in this way for some weeks, while the “ Shad- 
ow ” lay in Sandown Bay, or cruised about the sunny sea. There 
was so much to do during this period, that none of the young peo- 
ple, at least, had much time to think. They were constantly to- 
gether, always engaged with some project of pleasure, chattering 
and planning new opportunities to chatter and enjoy themselves 
once more; and the drama that was going on among them was but 
partially perceived by themselves, the actors in it. Some little 
share of personal feeling had awakened in Kate during these gay 
weeks. She had become sensible, with a certain twinge of mortifi- 
cation, that three or four, different times when she had talked to 
Bertie Hardwick, “ my Bertie,” his attention had wandered from 
her. It was a new sensation, and it Would be vain to conceal that 
she did not like it. He had smiled vacantly at her, and given a 


112 


OMBRA. 


va^^ue, muimuring answer, with bis eyes turned toward the spot 
where Ombra was; and he had left her at the first possible oppor- 
tunity. This filled Kate with consternation and a certain horror. 
It was very strange. She stood aghast, and Icoked at him ; and so 
little interest did he lake in the matter that he never observed her 
wondering, bewildered looks. The pang of mortification was 
sharp, and Kate had to gulp it down, her pride preventing her from 
showing what she felt. But after awhile her natural buoyancy 
regained the mastery. Of course it was natural he should like Om- 
bra best— Ombra was beautiful, Ombra was the queen of the mo- 
ment — Kate’s own queen, though she bad been momentarily un- 
willing to let her have everything. “ It is natural,” she said to 
herself, with philosophy— “ quite natural. What a fool 1 waste 
think anything else! Of ccuise he must care more for Ombra than 
for me; but i shall not give him the chance again.” This venge- 
ful threat, however, floated out of her unvindictive mind. She for- 
got all about it, and did give him the chance; and once more he an- 
swered her vaguely, with his face turned toward her cousin. This 
was too much for Kate’s patience. ” Mr. Bertie,” she said, “ go 
to Ombra if you please— no one wishes to detain you; but she takes 
no interest in you— to save yourself trouble, you may as well know 
that; she takes no interest in boys— or in you.” 

Upon which Bertie started, and woke up from his abstraction, 
and made a hundred apologies. Kate turned round in the midst of 
them and left him; she was angry, and felt herself entitled to be 
so. To admire Orubra was all very well; but to neglect herself, to 
neglect civility, to make apologies! She went off aftronted, deter- 
mined nearer to believe in boys more. There was no jealousy of her 
cousin in her mind; Kate recognized, with perfect composure and 
gcod sense, that it was Ombra’s day. Her own was to come. She 
was not out of short frocks yet, though she was over sixteen, and 
to expect to have vassals as Ombra had would be ridiculous. She 
had no fault to find with that, but she had a right, she felt, to ex- 
pect that her privilege as old friend and feudal suzeraine should be 
respected; whereas, even her good advice was all thrown back upon 
her, and she had so much good advice to offer! 

Kate reflected very deeply that morning on the nature of the 
sentiment called love. She had means of judging, having looked 
on while Mr. Sugden made himself loak very ridiculous; and now 
the Berties were repeating the process. ' Both of them? She asked 
herself the question as Mrs. Eldridge had done. It made them look 
foolish, and it made them selfish; cureless of other people, and cs- 


OMBRA. 


113 


peci?i,lly of herself. It was hard, it was an injury that her own old 
friend should be thus negligent, and thus apologize! 

Kate felt that if he had taken hei into his confidence, if^ 
he had said, “1 am in love with Ombra— 1 can’t think of 
anything else,” she would have understood him, and all would 
have been well. But boys were such strange creatures, so wanting 
in nerception; and she resolved that, if ever this sort of thing hap- 
pened to her, she would make a difieience. She would not permit 
this foolish absorption. She would say plainly, “ If you neglect 
your other friends, if you make yourselves look foolish for me, 1 
will have nothing to do with you. Behave as if you had some 
sense, and do me credit. Do you think i want fools to be in love 
with me?” This was what Kate made up her mind she would 
say, when it came to be her turn. 

This gay period, however, came to a strangely abrupt and mys- 
terious end. The party had come home one evening, joyous as 
usual. Ihey had gone round to Ryde in the morning to a regatta; 
the day had been perfect, the sea as calm as was compatible with 
the breeze they wanted, and ail had gone well. Mrs. Eldridge 
herself had accompanied them, and on the whole, though certain 
tremors had crossed her at one critical moment, when the wind 
seemed to be rising, these tremors were happily quieted, and she had, 

” on the whole,” as she cautiously stated, enjoyed the expedition. 
It was to be wound up, as most of these evenings had been, by a 
supper at the rectory. Mrs. Anderson was in her own room, ar- 
ranging her dress in order tc join the sailors in this concluding 
feast. She had been watching a young mocn rise into the twilight 
sky, and rejoicing in the beauty of the scene, for her children’s 
sake. Her heart was warm with the thought that Ombra was hap- 
py; that she was the queen of the party, deferred to, petled, ad- 
mired, nay— or the mother’s instinct deceived her— worshiped by 
some. These thoughts dittused a soft glow of happiness over her 
mind. Ombra was happy, she was thought of as she ought tc be, 
honored as she deserved, loved ; there was the brightest prospect 
opening up before her, and her mother, though she- had spent the 
long day alcne, felf a soft radiance of reflected light about her, 
which was to her what the moon was in the sky. it was a warm, 
soft, balmy summer evening; the world seemed almost to hold its 
breath in the mere happiness of being, as it a movement, a sigh, 
would have broken the spell. Mrs. Anderson put up her hair, 
(which was still pretty hair, and worth the I rouble), and arranged 
her ribbons, and was about to draw round her the light shawl 


114 


OMBRA. 


which Francesca had dropped on her shoulders, when all at once 
she saw Ombra coming through the garden alone. Ombra alone! 
with her head drooped, and a haze of something sad and mysteri- 
ous about her, which perhaps the mother’s eyes, perhaps the mere 
alarm of fancy, discerned at once. Mrs. Anderson gave a little 
ory. She dropped the shawl from her, and flew down-stairs. The 
ohiid was ill, or something had happened. A hundred wild ideas 
ran through her head in half a second. Kate had been drowned— 
Ombra had escaped from a wreck— the Berlies! She was almost 
surprised to see that her daughter was not drenched with sea- water, 
when she rushed to her, and took her in her arms. 

** What is the matter, Ombra? Something has happened. But 
.you are safe, my darling child!” 

“ Don’t,” said Ombra, withdrawing herself almost pettishly 
from her mother’s arms. “Nothing has happened. I— only was 
— tired; and 1 came home.” 

She sat down on one of the rustic seats under the veranda, and 
turned away her head. The moon shone upon her, on the pretty 
outline of her arm, on which she leaned, and the averted head. She 
had not escaped from a shipwreck. Had she'^anything to say 
which she dared not tell? Was it about Kate? 

” Ombra, dear, what is it? 1 know there is something. Kate?” 

“Kate? Kate is well enough. What should Kate have to do 
with it?” cried the girl, with impatient scorn; and then she sud- 
denly turned and hid her face on her mother’s arm. “Oh! 1 am 
so unhappy! — my heart is like to break! 1 want to see no one — no 
one but you again!” 

“ What is it, my darling? Tell me what it is.’* Mrs. Anderson 
knelt down beside her child. She drew her into her arms. She 
put her soft hand on Ombra’s cheek, drawing it close to her own, 
and concealing it by the fond artifice. “ Tell me,” she whispered. 
But Ombra did not say anything. She lay still and sobbed softly, 
as it were under her breath. And there her. mother knelt support- 
ing her, her cwn eyes full of tears, and her heart of wonder. Om- 
bra, who had been this morning the happiest of all the happy! 
Dark, impossible shadows crept through Mrs, Anderson’s mind. 
She grew sick with suspense, 

“1 can not tell you here,” said Ombra, recovering a little. 
“ Ccme in. Take me upstairs, mamma. IMobody has done it; it 
is my cwn fault.” 

They went up to the little white room opening from her mother’s 
wheie Ombra slept. The red shawl was still lying on the floor. 


OMBEA. 


115 


•where it had fallen from Mrs. Anderson’s shoulders. Her little 
box of trinkets was open, her gloves oh the table, and the moon- 
light, with a scft inquisition, whitening the brown air of the twi- 
light, stole in by the side of the glass in which the two figures were 
dimly reflected. 

“ Do 1 look like a ghost?” said Ombra, taking off her hat. She 
was very pale; she looked like one of those creatures, half demons, 
half spirits, which poets see about the streams and woods. Is ever 
had she been so shadowy, so like her name; but there was a mist of 
consternation, of alaim, of trouble, about her. She was scared as 
well as heart-broken, like one who had seen some vision, and had 
been robbed of all her happiness thereby. ” Mamma,” she said, 
leaning upon her mother, but looking in the glass all the time, 
” this is the end of everything. 1 will be as penitent as 1 can, and 
not vex you more than 1 can help; but it is all over, i do not care 
to live any more, and it is my own fault.” 

” Ombia, ha\e some pity on me! Tell me, for heaven’s sake, 
what you mean.” 

llien Ombra withdrew from her support, and began to take off 
her litlle ornaments— the necklace she wore, according to the fash 
ion cf the time, the little black velvet bracelets, the brooch at her 
throat. 

It has all happened since sunset,” she said, as she nervously 
undid the clasps. ” He was beside me on the deck— he has been 
beside me all day. Oh! can’t you tell without having it put into 
words?” 

” 1 can not tell what could make you miserable,” said her 
mother, with some impatience. ” Ombra, if 1 could be angry with 
you—” 

” No, no,” she said, deprecating. Then you did not see it any 
more than 1? So 1 am not so much, so very much to blame. Oh! 
mamma, he told me he- -loved me— wanted me to— to— be married 
to him. Oh! when 1 think of all he said—” 

” But, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, recovering in a moment, 
” there is nothing so very dreadful in this. 1 knew he would tell 
you 80 one day or other. 1 have seen it coming for a long time—’ 

” And you never told me— you never so much as tried tc help 
me to see! "You would not take the trouble to save your child 
from^from — Oh! 1 will never forgive you, mamma!” 

” Ombra!” Mrs. Anderson was struck with such absolute con- 
sternation that she could not say another word. 


116 


OMBEA. 


“ 1 refused him,” said the girl, suddenly, turning away with a 
quiver in her voice. 

“ You refused him?” 

“ What could 1 do else? 1 did not Enow what he was going to 
say. 1 never thought he car( d. Can one see into another’s heart? 
1 was so— 'taken by surprise. 1 was so — frightened—he should see. 
And then, oh! the look he gave me! Oh! mother! mother! it is 
all over! Everything has come to an end! 1 shall never be happy 
any more!” 

” What does it mean?” cried the bewildered mother. ” You— 
refused him; and yet you — Ombra — this is beyond making a 
mystery of. Tell me in plain words what you mean.” 

” Then it is this, in plain words,” said Ombra, rousing up, with 
a hot flush cn her cheek. ” 1 was determined he should not see 1 
cared, and 1 never thought Tie did; and when he spoke to me, 1 re- 
fused. That is all, in plain words. 1 did not know what 1 was 
doing. Oh ! mamma, you might be sorry for me, and not speak to 
me so! 1 did not believe him— 1 did not understand him; not till 
after—” - 

” My dear child, this is mere folly,” said her mother. V If it is 
only a misunderstanding— and you love each other — ” 

‘‘ It is no misunderstanding. 1 made it very plain to him— oh! 
Very plain! 1 said we were just to be the same as usual. That 
he was. to ccme to see us— and all that! Mother— let me lie down. 
1 am so faint. 1 think 1 shall die!” 

” But, Ombra, listen to me. 1 can’t let things remain like this. 
It is a misunderstandins: — a mistake even. 1 will speak to him.” 

” Then you shall never see me more!” cried Ombra, rising up, 
as it seemed, to twice her usual height. ” Mother, you would not 
shame me! If you do 1 will go away. 1 will never speak to you 
again. 1 will kill myself rather! Promise you will not say one 
word.” 

” 1 will say nothing to— to shame you, as you call it.” 

” Promise you will not say one word.” 

” Ombra, 1 must act accoiding to my sense of my duty. 1 will 
be very careful — ” ' 

” It you do not want to drive me mad, you will promise. The 
day you speak to him of this, 1 will go away. You shall never, 
never see me more!” 

And the promise had to be made. 


0:!tIBKA. 


117 


CHAPTER XXL 

The promise «vas made, and Umbra lay down in her little white 
bed, silent, no longer making a core plaint. She turned her face to 
the wall, and begged her mother to leave her. 

“ Don't say any more. Please take no notice. Oh! mamma, if 
you love me, don’t say any more,*' she had said. “ If 1 could have 
helped it, I would not have told you. It was because — when 1 
found out — ” 

“Oh! Ombra, surely it was best to tell me -surely you would 
not have kept this from your mother?” 

“ 1 don’t knew,” she said. “If you speak of it again 1 shall 
think it was not for the best. Oh! mother, go away. It makes 
me angry to be pitied. 1 can’t bear it. Let me alone. It is all 
over. 1 wish never to speak of it mere!” 

“ But, Ombra—” 

“ No more! Oh! mamma, why will you take such a cruel ad- 
vantage? 1 can not bear any more!” 

Mrs. Anderson left her child, with a sigh. She went down stairs, 
and stood in the veranda, leaning on the rustic pillar to which the 
honeysuckle hung. The daylight had altogether crept away, the 
moon was mistress of the sky; but she no longer thought of the 
sky, nor of the lovely serene night, nor the moonlight. A sudden 
storm had come into her mind. What was she to do? She was a 
woman not apt to take any decided step for herself. Since her hus- 
band’s death she had taken counsel with her daughter on every- 
thing that passed in their life. 1 do net mean to imply that she 
had been moved only by Umbra’s action, or was without individual 
energy of her own; but those who have thought, planned, and acted 
always d deux, find it sadly difficult to put themselves in motion 
individually, without the mental support which is natural to them. 
And then Mrs. Anderson had been accustomed all her life to keep 
within the strict leading-strings of propriety. She had regulated 
her doings by those rules of decorum, those regulations as to what 
was “ becoming,” what “ fitting her position,” with which society 
simplifies but limits the proceedings of her votaries. These rules 
f 01 bade any interference in such a matter as this. They forbade 
to her any direc>acti()n at all in a complication so difficult. That 
she might work indirectly no doubt was quite possible, and would 
be perfectly legitimate— if she could, but how? 


118 


OMBRA. 


She stood leaning upon the mass ot honeysuckle which breathed 
sweetness all about her, with the moonlight shining calm and sweet 
upon her lace. The peacefulest place and moment ; the most ab- 
solute repose and quietness about her — a scene from which conflict 
and pain seemed altogether shut out; and yet how much perplex- 
ity, how much vexation and distress were there. By and by^ 
how'ever, she woke up to the tact that she had no light to be where 
she was— that she ought at that moment to be at the rectory, keep- 
ing up appearances, and explaining rather than adding to the mys- 
tery of her daughter’s disappearance. It was a “trying” thing 
to do, but Mrs. Anderson all her life had maintained rigidly the 
principle of keeping up appearances, and had gone through many 
a trying moment in consequence. She sighed; but she went meek- 
ly upstairs, and got the shawl which still lay on the floor, and 
wrapped it round her, and went away alone, bidding old Francesca 
watch over Ombra. She went down the still, rural road in the 
moonlight, still working at her tangled skein of thoughts. If he 
had but had the gcod sense to speak to her first, in the old-fashion^ 
ed way— if he would but have the good sense to cc-me and openly 
speak to her now, and give her a legitimate opening to interfere. 
She walked slowly, and she staited at every sound, wondering if 
perhaps it might be him hanging about, on the chance of seeing 
some one. When at last she did see a figure approaching, her heart 
leaped to her mouth; but it was not the figure she looked for. It 
was Mr. Sugden, the tail curate, hanging about anxiously on the 
road. 

“Is Miss Anderson ill?” he said, while he held her hand in 
greeting. 

“The sun has given her a luadache. She has bad headaches 
sometimes,” she answered, cheerfully; “but it is nothing — she 
will be better to-morow. She has been so much more out of doors 
lately since this yachting began.” 

“ That will not go on any longer,” said the curate, with a mixt- 
ure of regret and satisfaction. After a moment Ihe satisfaction 
piedominated, and he drew a long breath, thinking to himself of 
all that had been, of all that the yacht had made an end of. 

“ Thank Providence!” he added softly; and then louder, “ our two 
friends are going, or gone. A letter was waiting them with bad 
news— or, at least, with news of seme description, which called 
them off. I wonder you did not meet them going back to the pier. 
As the wind is favorable, they thought the best way was to cross 


OMBRA. 


119 


in the yacht. Ihey did not stop even to eat anything. 1 am sur- 
prised you did hot meet them. ” 

Mrs. Anderson’s heart gave a leap, a»id then seemed to stop beat- 
ing. It she had met them, he would have spoken, and all might 
have been well. It she had but started five minutes earlier, 
if she had walked a little taster, if— But now they were 
out of sight, out of reach, perhaps forever. Her vexation and dis* 
appointment were so keen that tears came to her eyes in the dark- 
ness. Yes, in her heart she had felt sure that she could do some- 
thing, "that he would speak to her, that she might he able to speak 
to him; but now all was over, as Umbra said. She could not make 
any reply to her companion — she was past talking; and, besides, 
it did not seem to be necessary to make any efi'ort to keep up ap- 
pearances with the curate. Men were all obtuse; and he was not 
specially clever, but rather the reverse. He never would notice, 
nor think that this departure was anything to her. She walked on 
by his side in silence, only saying, after awhile, ” It is very sudden 
— they will be a great loss to all you young people; and 1 hope it 
was not illness, or any trouble in the family — ” 

But she did not hear what answer was made to her — she took no 
further notice of him— her head began to buzz, and there was a sing- 
ing iD her ears, because of the multiplicity of her thoughts. She 
recalled herself, with an effort, when the rectory doors were pushed 
open cy her companion, and she found herself in the midst of a 
large party, all seated round the great table, all full of the news of 
the evening, interspersed with inquiries about the absent. 

“Oh! have you heard what has happened? Oh! how is Umbra, 
Mrs. Anderson? Oh! we are all heart-bioken! What shall we do 
without them?” rose the chorus. 

Mrs. Anderson smiled her smile of greeting, and put on a 
proper look of concern for the loss of the Berties, and was cheerful 
about her daughter. She behaved herself as a model woman in 
the circumstances would behave, and she believed, and with seme 
justice, ihat she had quite succeeded. She succeeded with the 
greater part of tlu^ parly,, nc doubt; but there were two who looked 
at her with doubtful eyes— the curate, about whom she had taken 
no precautions; and Kate, who knew every line of her face. 

“ 1 hope it is not illness nor trouble in the family,” Mrs. Ander- 
son repeated, allowing a look of gentle anxiety to come over her 
face. 

“ Ko, 1 hope not,” said Mrs. Eldridge; “’though 1 am a little 
anxious^ 1 allow. But no, really 1 don’t think it. Thsy would 


120 


OMBRA. 


never have concealed such a thing from us; though there was act- 
ually no time to explain. I had gone upstairs to take ofi my things, 
and all at once there was a cry, ‘ The Berties are going!* ‘ My 
dear boys, what is the matter?* 1 said; * is there anything wrong at 
either of your homes? 1 beg of you to let me know .the worst I* 
And then one of them called to me from the bottom of the stairs, 
that it was nothing— it was only that they must go to meet some 
one— one of their young men's engagements, 1 suppose. He said 
they would come back; but 1 tell the children that is nonsense; 
while they were here they might be persuaded to stay, but once 
gone, they will never ccme back this season. Ah! 1 have only too 
much reason to know boys* ways.*’ 

“ But they looked dreadfully cast down, mamma— as if they had 
had bad news,*’ said Lucy Eldridge, who, foreseeing the end of a 
great deal of unusual liberty, felt very much cast down herself. 

“ Bertie Hardwick looked as if he had seen a ghost,** said an- 
other. 

“ No, it was Bertie Eldridge,” cried a third. 

Kate looked from her end of the table at her aunt’s face, and 
said nothing; and a deep red glow came upon Mr. Sugden’s cheeks. 
These two young people had each formed a theory in haste, from 
the very few facts they knew, and both were quite wrong; but 
that fact did not diminish the energy with which they cuerished 
each their special notion. Mrs. Anderson, however, was imper- 
turbable. She sat near Mrs. Eldridge, and talked to her with easy 
cheerfulness about the day’s expedition, and all that had been going 
on. She lamented the end of the gayety, but remarked, with a 
smile, that perhaps the girls had had enough. “ 1 saw this morning 
that Ombra was tired out. 1 wanted her not to go, but of course 
it was natural she should wish to go; and the consequence is, one 
of her racking headaches,” she said. 

With the gravest of faces, Kate listened. She had heard nothing 
of Ombra’s headache till that moment; still, of course, the conver- 
sation which Mrs. Anderson reported might have taken place in 
her absence; but— Kate was very much disturbed in her soul, and 
very anxious that the meal should come to an end. 

The moon had almost disappeared when the company dispersed. 
Kate rushed to her aunt, and took her hand, and whispered in her 
ear; but a sudden perception of a tall figure ori Mis. Anderson’s 
other hand stopped hftr. What do you say, Kate?” cried her 
aunt; but the question could not be repeated. Mr. Sugden 
marched by their side all the way— he could not have very well 


OMBRA. 


121 


tola why— in case he should be wanted, he said to himself; but he 
did not even attempt to explain to himself how he could be 
wanted. He felt stern, determined, ready to do anything cr every-^. 
thing. Kate’s presence hampered him, as his hampered her. He 
would have liked to say something more distinct than ho could now 
permit himself to do. 

“ 1 wish you would believe,” he said, suddenly, bending over 
Mrs. Anderson in the darkness, “ that 1 am always at your service, 
ready to do anything you want.” 

“ You are very, very kind,” said Mrs. Anderson, with the great- 
est wonderment. “ Indeed, 1 am sure 1 should not have hesitated 
to ask you, had 1 been in any trouble,” she added, gently. 

But Mr. Sugden was too much in earnest to be embarrassed by . 
the gentle denial she made of any necessity for his help. 

“ At any time, in any circumstances,” he said, hoarsely. Mrs. - 
Anderson, 1 do not say this is what 1 would choose^but if your 
daughter should have need of a — of one who would serve her— like 
a brother— 1 do not say it is what 1 would choose — ” 

” My dear Mr. Sugden I you are so very goed— ” 

** Ko, not good,” he said, anxiously — ‘‘ doh*!; say that— good to 
myself— if you will tut believe me. 1 would forget everything 
else.” 

“ Tou may be sure, should 1 feel myself in need, you will be 
the first 1 shall go to,” said Mrs. Anderson, graciously. (“ What 
can he mean? — what fancy can he have taken into his head?” she 
was saying, with much perplexity, all the time to herself.) ” 1 can 
not ask you to come in, Mr. Sugden — we must keep everything 
quiet for Ombra: but 1 hope we shall see you soon.” 

And she dismissed him, accepting graciously all his indistinct 
and eager ofiers of service. ‘‘ He is very good; but 1 don’t know 
what he is thinking of,” she said rather drearily as she turned to 
go in. Kate was still clinging to her, and Kate, though it was not * 
necessary to keep up appearances with her, had better, Mrs. Ander- 
son thought, be kept in the dark too, as much as was possible. ” 1 
am going to Ombra,” she said. “ Ocod-night, my dear child. 
Go to bed.” 

” Auntie, stop a minute. Oh! auntie, take me into youi confi- 
dence. 1 Jove her, and you too. 1 will never say a word, or let 
any cne see that 1 know. Oh! auntie— Ombra — has she gone with 
them?— has she— run — away?” 

” Ombra— run away!” cried Mis. Anderson, throwing her niece’s 


122 


OMBEA. 


arm from her. “ Child, how dare you? Dc you mean to inault 
both her and me?” 

Kate stood abashed, drawn back to a little distance, tears com- 
ing to her eyes. 

” 1 did not mean any harm,” she said, humbly. 

“Not mean any harm! But you thought my child— my Ombra 
— had run away!” 

“Oh! forgive me,” said Kate. “ I know now how absurd it 
was; tut— 1 thought— she might be— in love. People do it— at 
least in books. Don’t be angiy with me, auntie. 1 thought so be- 
cause of your face. Then what is the matter? Oh! do teli me; 
no one shall ever know from me.” 

Mrs. Anderson was worn out. She suftered Kate’s supporting 
arm to steal round her. She leaned her head upon the girl’s 
shoulder. 

“ 1 can’t tell you, dear,” she said, with a sob. “ She has mis- 
taken her feelings; she is— very unhappy. You must be very, very 
kind and good to her, and never let her see you know anything. 
Oh! Kate, my darling is very unhappy. She thinks she has broken 
her heart.” 

“ Thenl know!” cried Kate, stamping her toot upon the gravel, 
and feeling as Mr. Sugden did, “Oh! 1 will go after them and 
bring them back! It is their fault.” 


CHAPTER XXll. 

Mrs. Anderson awaited her daughter’s awakening next morn- 
ing with an anxiety which was indescribable. She wondered even 
at the deep sleep into which Ombra fell after the agitation of the 
night— wondered, not because it was new or unexpected, but with 
that wonder which moves the elder mind at the sight of youth in 
all its vagaries, capable of such wild emotion at one moment, sink- 
ing into profound repose at another. But, after all, Ombra had 
been for some lime awake, ere her watchful mother observed. 
When Mrs. Anderson looked at her, she was lying with her mouth 
closely shut and her eyes open, gazing fixedly at the light, pale as^ 
the morning itself, which was misty, and rainy, and wan, after the 
brightness of last night. Her look was so fixed and her lips so 
firmly shut, that her mother grew alarmed. 

“ Ombia!” she said softly — “ Ombra, my darling, my poor 
child!” 


OMBRA. 


123 


Ombra turned round sharply, fixing her eyes on her mother’s 
face as she had fixed them on the light. 

“ What is it?” she said. “ Why are you up so early? 1 am 
not ill, am 1?” and looked at her with a kind of menace, forbid- 
ding, as it were, any reference to what was past. 

‘‘ 1 hope not, dear,” said JVIrs. Anderson. ” You have too much 
courage and good sense, my darling, to be ill.” 

‘‘Do. courage and good sense keep one from being ill?’" said 
Ombra, wilh something like a sneer; and then she said, *‘ Please, 
mamma, go away. 1 want to get up.” 

‘‘ Not yet, dear. Keep still a little longer. You are not able to 
get up yet,” said poor Mrs. Anderson, trembling for the news which 
would meet her when she came into the outer world again. What 
strange change was it that had come upon Ombra? She looked 
almost derisively, almost threateningly’’ into her mother’s face. 

*• One would think 1 had had a fever, or that some great misfort- 
une had happened to me,” she said; ” blit 1 am not aware of it. 

Xieave me alone, please. 1 have a thousand things to do. 1 want 
to get up. Mother, for Heaven’s sake don’t look at me so! lou ' 

will drive me wild! My nerves can not stand it; nor— nor my 
temper,” said Ombra, with a thrill in her voice which had never 
been heard there before. ” Mamma, if ycu have any pity, go 
away.” 

” If my lady will permit, 1 will attend Mees Ombra,” said old 
Francesca, coming in with a look of ominous significance. And 
poor Mrs. Anderson was worn out— she had been up half the night, 
and during the other half she did not sleep, though Ombra slept, j 
who was the chief sufferer.' Vanquished novv by her daughter’s 
unfilial looks, she stole away, and cried by herself for a few mo- 
ments in a corner, which did -her good and relieved her heart. j 

^ But Francesca advanced to the bedside with intentions far differ- ^ 

ent from any her mistress had divined. She approached Ombra | 
solemnly, holding out two fingers at her. | i 

”1 make the horns,” said Francesca; ‘‘1 advance not to you ]' 

again, mademoiselle, without making the horns. Either you are | 

an ice-maiden, as I said, and make enchantments, or you have the “ | 

evil eye—” \ | 

‘‘Oh! be quiet, please, and leave me alone. 1 want to get up. I ' ^ 

don’t want to be talked to. Mamma leaves me when i ask her, | 

and why should not ycu?” ' ~ | 

” Because, mademoiselle,” said Francesca, with elaborate polite- | 
ness, ” my lady has fear of grieving her child; but for me I ba'^" ^ 



124 


OMBKA. 


not tear. Figure to yourself that 1 have made you like the child 
of my bosom for eighteen— nineteen year — and shall 1 stand by 
now, and see you drive love from you, drive life from you? You 
' think so, perhaps? No, 1 am holder than my dear padrona. 1 do 
not care sixpence if 1 break your heart. You are ice, you are 
stone, you are worse than all the winters and the frosts! Signorina 
* Ghiaccia, you haf done it now!” 

‘ ‘ Francesca, go away! You have no right to speak" to me so. 
What nave 1 done?” 

“Done!” cried Francesca, ‘‘done! all the evil things you can 
do. You have driven all away from you who cared for you. Fig- 
ure to yourself that a little ship went away from the golf last night,, 
and the two young signori in it. You w:ll say (6 me that it is- 
not you who have done it; but 1 believe you not. Who but youy 
Mees Ombra, Mees Ice and Snow? And so you will do with ail till 
you are left alone, lone in the world — 1 know it. You turn to ze 
wall, you cry, you think you make me cry too, but no, Francesca 
will speak ze trutt to you, if none else. Last night, as soon as you 
come home, ze little ship go away— — what you call dreaven 
away— dreaven ajv^ay, like by ze Tramontana, ze wind from ze ice- 
mountains! That is you. Already I hat said it. You are Ghiaccia 
—you will leave yourself lone, lone in ze world, wizout one zing 
to lot!” 

Francesca’s English grew more and more broken as she rose into 
fervor. She stood now by Umbra’s bedside, with all the eloquence 
of indignation in her words, and looks, and gestures; her little un- 
covered head, with its knot of scanty hair twisted tightly up be- 
hind, nodding and quivering; her brown little hands gesticulating; 
her foot patting the floor; her black .eyes flashing. Umbra had 
turned to the wall, as she said. She could discomfit her gentle 
mother, but she could not put down Francesca. And then this 
news which Francesca brought her went like a stone to the depths 
cf her heart. 

“ But 1 will tell you vat vill komm,” she went on, with sparks 
of fire, as it seemed, flashing from her eyes—” there vill komm a 
day when the ice will melt, like ze torrents in ze mountains. There 
' will be a rush, and a flow, and a swirl, and then the avalanche! 
The ice will become water — it will run down, it will flood ze con- 
tree; but it will not do good to nobody, mademoiselle. They will 
be gone, the persons who would have loved. All will be over. Ze 
melting and ze flowing will be too late— it will be like the torrents 
in May, all will go with it, ze home, ze friends, ze comfort that 


OMBRA. 


125 


you love, you English. All will go. Madeffioiselle Will be sorry 
then,” said Francesca, regaining her composure, and making a 
vindictive courtesy. She smiled at the tremendous picture she was 
conscious of having drawn, with a certain complacency. She had 
beaten down with her fierce storm of words the white figure which 
lay turned away from hei with hidden face. But Francesca’s heart 
did not melt. “ Kow 1 have told you ze trutt,” she said, impress- 
ively. “ Ze bath, and all things is ready, if mademoiselle wishes, 
to get up now.” 

“ What have you been saying to my child, Francesca?” said 
Mrs. Anderson,, who met her as she left the room, looking very 
grave, and with red eyes. 

“Kozing but ze trutt,” said Francesca, with returning excite- 
ment; “vich nobody will say but me— for 1 lof her— 1 lof her I 
She is my bebe too. Madame will please go downstairs, and have 
her breakfast,” she added, calmly. ” Mees Ombra is getting up — 
there is nothing more to say. She will come down in quarter of 
an hour, and all will be as usual. It will be better that madame 
say nothing more.” 

Mrs. Anderson w^as not unused to such interference on Fran- 
cesca’s part; the only difference was that no such grave crisis had 
ever happened before. She was aware that, in milder cases, her 
own caressing and indulgent ways had been powerfully aided by 
the decided action of Francesca, and her determination to speak 
” ze trutt,” as she called it, without being moved by Ombra’s in- 
dignation, or even by her tears. Her mistress, though too proud 
to appeal to her for aid, had been but tco glad to accept it ere now. 
But this was such an emergency as had never happened before, and 
she stood doubtful, unable to make up her mind what she should 
do, at the door of Ombra’s room, until the sounds within made it 
apparent that Ombra had really got up, and that there was, for the 
moment, nothing further to be done. She went away half dis- 
consolate, 'half relieved, to the bright little dining-room below,^ 
where the pretty breakfast-table was spread, with flowers on it, and 
sunshine straying in through the net-work of honeysuckles and 
roses. Kate was* at her favorite occupation, arranging flowers in 
the hall, but. singing under her breath, lest she should disturb ter 
cousin. 

” How is Ombra?” she whispered, as if the sound of a voice 
would be injurious to her. 

. ” She is better, dear; 1 think much better. But, oh, Kate, for 


126 


f 


OMBEA. 


heaven’s sake, take nc notice, not a word! Don’t look even as il 
you supposed—” 

” Of course not, auntie,” said Kate, with momentary indigna- 
tion that she should be supposed capable of such unwomanly want 
of comprehension. They were seated quite cheerfully at breakfast 
when Ombra appeared. She gave them a suspicious look to dis- 
cover if they had been talking of her—it Kate knew anything; 
bu* Kate (she thanked heaven), knew better than to betray herself. 
She asked after her cousin’s headache, on the contiary, in the most 
easy and natural way; she talked (very little) of the events of the 
preceding day. She propounded a plan of her own for that 
afternoon, which was to drive along the coast to a point w'hich 
Ombra had wished to make a sketch of. ‘‘ It will be the very 
thing for to-day,” said Kate. “The rain is over, and the sun 
is shining; but it is too mist}" for sea-views, and we must be con- 
tent with the land.” 

** Is it true,” said Ombra, locking her mother in the face, ” that 
the yacht went away last night?” 

‘‘Oh, yes,” cried Kate, taking the subject Dut ct Mrs. Ander- 
son’s hands, ‘‘ quite true. They found letters at the railway call- 
ing them oft- or, at least, so they said. Some of us thought it was 
your fault tor going away, but my opinion is that they did it ab- 
ruptly to keep up our interest. One can not go on yachting for 
ever and ever; for my part, 1 was beginning to get tired. Whereas, 
it they come back again, after a month or so, it will all be as fresh 
as ever.” 

** Are they coming back?” 

” Yes,” said, boldly, the undaunted Kate. 

Mrs. Anderson spoke not a word; she sat and trembled, pitying 
her child to the bottom of her heart— longing to take her into her 
arms, to speak consolation to her, but not daring. The mother, 
who would have tried it she could to get the moon for Qmbra, had 
to stand aside, and let Francesca ” tell ze trutt,” and Kate give the 
consolation. Some women would have resented the interference, 
tut she was heroic, and kept silence. The audacious little fib 
which Kate had told so gayly, had already done its woik; the cloud 
of dull quiet which had been on Ombra A face, brightened. All 
w"as perhaps not over yet. 

Thus after ibis interrupticn of their tranquillity they fell back 
into the old dull routine. Mr. Sugden was once more master of the 
field. Ombra kept herself so entirely in subjection, that nobody 
out of the cottage guessed what crisis she had passed through, ex- 


OMBKA. 


127 


cept this one observer, whose eyes were quickened by jealousy and 
by love. The curate was not deceived by her smiles, by her ex- 
pressions of content with the restored quietness, by her eagerness 
to return to all their old occupations. He watched her with anx- 
ious eyes, noting all her little caprices, noting the paleness which 
would come over her, the wistful gaze over the sea, which some- 
times abstracted her from her companions. 

“ She is not happy, as she used to be— she is only making be- 
lieve, like the angel she is, to keep us from being wretched,’' iJc 
said to Kate. 

“ Mr. Sugden, you talk great nonsense; there is nothing the mat- 
ter with my cousin,” Kate would reply. On which Mr. Sugden 
sighed heavily and shook his head, and went off to find Mrs. An- 
derson, whom he gently beguiled into a corner. • 

‘‘You remember what 1 said,” he would whisper to her earnest- 
ly—” if you want my services in any way. It is not what 1 would 
have wished; but think of me as her— brother; let me act for you, 
as her brother would, if there is any need for it. Remember, you 
promised that you would—” 

” Wbat does the man want me to bid him do?” Mrs. Anderson 
would ask in perplexity, talking the matter over with Kate— a re- 
lief which she sometimes permitted herself ; tor Ombra forbade all 
reference to the subject, and she could not shut up her anxieties 
entirely in her own heart. But Kate could throw nc light on the 
subject. Kate herself was not at all clear what had happened. She 
could not make quite sure, from her aunt’s vague statement, 
wdiether it was Ombra that was in the wrong, or the Beities, or if 
it was both the Berties, cr which it was. There w^ere so many 
complications in the question, that it was very difiiciilt to come to 
any conclusion about it. But she held fast by her conviction that 
they must come back to Shanklin— it was inevitable that they must 
come back. 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

Kate was so far a true prophet that the Berties did return, but 
not till Christmas, and then only for a few days. For the first time 
during the autumn and early winter, time hung heavy upon the 
hands of the little household. Their innocent routine of life, which 
had supported them so pleasantly hitherto, supplying a course of 
gentle duties and necessities, broke down new, no one could tell 
why. Routine is one of the pleasantest stays of monotonous life,. 


128 


OMBKA. 


SO long as no agitating influence has come into it, It makes exist- 
ence more supportable to millions of people who have ceased to he 
excited by the vicissitudes ol life, or who have not yet left the 
pleasant creeks and bays of youth for the more agitated and stormy 
sea; but when that first interruption has come, without bringing 
either satisfaction or happiness with it, the bond of routine becomes 
terrible. All tlie succession of duties and pleasures which had 
seemed to her as the course of nature a few months before— as un- 
ehjfngeable as the succession cf day and night, and as necessary— 
became now a burden to Ombra, under which her nerves, her tem- 
per, her very life gave way. She asked herself, and often asked 
the others, why they should do the same things every day i— what 
was the good of it? The studies which she shared with her cousin, 
the little charities they did — visits to this poor woman or the other, 
expeditions with the small round basket, which held a bit of chick- 
en, or some jelly, or a pudding for a sick pensioner; the walks 
they took for exercise, their sketchings and practicings, and all the 
graceful details of their innocent life— what was the good of them? 

The poor people don’t want oui puddings and things. 1 dare 
say they throw them away when we are gone,” said Ombra. 

They don’t want to be interfered with— 1 should not, if 1 were 
in their place; and if we go on sketching till the end of time, we 
never shall make a tolerable picture — you could buy a better for 
five shillings; and the poorest pianist in a concert room would play 
better than we could, though we spent half the day practicing. 
What is the good of it? Oh! if you only knew how sick 1 am of 
Hall!” 

‘‘ But, dear, you could not sit idle all day — you could not read 
all day. You must do something,” said poor Mrs. Anderson, not 
knowing howto meet this terrible criitcism, ” for your owm sake.” 

“For my own sake!” said Ombra: “Ah! that is just what 
makes i I so dreadful, so disgusting! 1 am to go on with all this 
mass of nonsense for my own sake. Not that it is, or ever will be, 
of use to any one; not that there is any need to do it, or any good 
ii^ doing it; but for my own sake! Oh! mamma, don’t you see 
what a satire it is? No man, nobody whc criticises 'women, ever 
said W'Orse than you have just said. We are so useless to the 
world, so little wanted by the world, that we are obliged to furbish 
up little silly, senseless occupations, simply to keep us from yawn- 
ing ourselves to death— for our own sakes!” 

— ‘ Indeed, Ombra, 1 db not understand what you mean, or what 
you would have,” Mis. Anderson would answer, all but crying, 


OMBRA. 129 

the veKation of being unable lo answer categorically, inci easing 
lier distress at her daughter’s contradictoriness: for, to be sure, 
when you anatomized all these simple habits of life, what Ombra 
said was true enough. The music and the drawing were done for 
occupation rather than for results. The visits to the poor did but 
little practical service, though the whole routine had made up a 
pleasant lite, gently busy, and full cf kindly interchanges. 

J\Irs. Anderson felt that she herself had not been a useless mem- 
ber of society, or one whose withdrawal would have made no differ- 
ence to the world; but in what words was she to say so? bhe was 
partially affronted, vexed, and distressed. Even when she reflected 
on the subject, she did not know in what words to reply to her 
argumentative child. She could justify her own existence to her- 
self — for was not she the head and center of this house, upon whom 
iive orher persons depended for comfort and guifllance? “Five 
persons,’' iVIrs. Anderson said to herself. “Even Ombra — what 
would she do without me? And Kate would have no home, if 1 
were not here to make one for her; and those maids who eat our 
biead!” All this she repeated to herself, feeling that she was not, 
even now, without use in the world; but how could she have said 
it lo her daughter? Probably Ombra would have answered that 
the whole household might be swept off the face of the earth with- 
out harm to any one— that there was no use in them;— a proposi- 
tion which it was impossible either to refute or to accept. 

Thus the household had changed its character, no one knew* 
hew. When Kate arranged the last winterly bou:iuets of chrysan- 
Ihemums and autumnal leaves in the flat dishes which she had 
once filled with primroses, her sentiments were almost as Oifferent 
os the season. She was nipped b}" a subtle cold more penetrating 
than that which blew about the Cottage in the ^November winds, 
and tried to get entrance through the closed windows. She was ^ 
made uncomfortable in all her habits, unsettled in her youthful 
opinions. Sometimes a refreshing little breeze of impatience crossed 
her mind, but generally she was depressed by the change, without 
well knowing why. 

“If we are all as useless as Ombra says, it would be better to be 
a cook or a bouse-maid; but then the cook agd the house-maid are of 
use only to help us useless creatures, sc tliey are nc good either!'’ 
This was the style of reasoning which Om bra’s vagaries brought 
into fashion. But these vagaries probably never would have oc- 
curred at all, had not something happened to Ombra which dis- 
turbed the whole edifice ot her young life. Had she accepted the 


130 


OMBRA. 


love which wasollerecl to her no doubt every circumstance aroun<2 
her would have worn a sweet perfection and appropriateness to her 
eyes; or Had she been utterl}^ fancy-free, and untouched by the new 
thing which had been so suddenly thrust upon her, the pleasant 
routine might have continued, and all things gone on as before. 
But the light of a new life had gleamed upon Ombra, and fcolish- 
Jy, hastily, she had put it away from her. She had put it away— 
but she could not forget that, sudden and rapid gleam wdiich had 
lighted up the whole landscape. When she looked out over that 
landscape now% the distances were blurred, the foreground had 
grown vague and dim with mists, the old sober light which dwelt 
theie had gone forever, following that sudden, evanescent, mo-. 
menlary gleam. What was the good? Once, for a moment, what 
seemed to be the better, the best, had shone upon her. it tied, and 
even the homelier good fled with it. Blankness, futility, an ex- 
istence which meant nothing, and could come to nothing, was what 
remained to her now. 

So Ombra thought; perhaps a girl of higher mind, or more gen- 
erous heart, would not have done so— but it is hard to take a wide 
or generous view of life at nineteen, when one thinks one has 
thrown away all that makes existence most sweet. The loss; the 
terrible disappointment; the sense of folly and guilt— -for was it not 
all her cwn fault? — made such a mixture of bitterness to Ombra- 
as it is difficult to describe. If she had been simply crossed in 
love,'* as people say, there would have been some solace possible;; 
theie would have been the visionary fidelity, the melancholy de- 
light of resignation, or even self-sacrifice; but here there was noth- 
ing to comfort her — it was herself only who was to blame, and that 
in so ridiculous and childish a tvay. Therefore, every time she- 
thought of it (and she thought of it. forever), the reflection made 
her heart sick with self-disgust, and cast her down into despair. 
The tide had come to her, as it comes always in the afiairs of men, 
tut she had not caught it, and now was left ashore, a maiden wreck 
upon the beach for ever and ever. So Ombra thought — and this 
thought in her was to all the household as though a cloud hung 
over it. Mrs. Anderson was miserable, and Kate depressed, she 
could not tell why. 

“We are getting as dull as the old women in the almsliouses,’^ 
the latter said, one day, with a sigh. And then, after a pause — “ a 
great deal duller, for they chatter about everything or nothing. 
They are cheery (»ld souls; they look as if they had expected it aK 
their lives,^and liked it now they are there.’" 


OMBRA. 


131 


*' And so they did, 1 suppose. Not expected it, 'but hoped for 
it, find were anxicus about it, and used all the influence they could 
get to he elected. Of coutse they looked forwaid to it as the very 
best thinti: that could happen—” 

‘‘ To live in the almshouses?” said Kate, with looks aghast, 
book forward to it I Oh, auntie, what a terrible idea!” 

” My dear,” Mrs. Anderson said, somewhat subdued, ” their ex- 
pectations and ours are different.” 

“ That means,” said Ombra, “ that most of us have not even 
almshouses to look forward to; nothing hut futility, past and pres- 
ent — caring fcr nothing and desiring nothing.” 

” Ombra, 1 do not know what you will say next,” cried the poor 
mother, baffled and vexed, and ready to burst into tears. Her 
child plagued her to the last verge of a mother’s patience, setting 
iier on edge in a hundred ways. And Kate looked on with open 
-eyes, and sometimes shared her aunt’s impatience; but chiefly, as 
she still admired and adored Ombra, allowed that young woman’s 
painful mania to oppress her, and was melancholy for company. 
1 do not suppose, however, that Kale’s melancholy was of a pain- 
ful nature, or did her much harm. And, besides her mother, the 
person who suffered most through Ombra, was poor Siigden, who 
■watched her till his eyes grew large and hollow m his hcuest counte- 
nance; till his very soul glowed with indignation against the 
Betties, The determination to find out which it was who had 
ruined her happiness, and to seek him out even at the end ot 
the world, and exact a tenible punishment, grew stronger and 
stronger in him during those dreary days of winter. “As if 
1 were her brother; though, God knows, that is not what 1 would 
have wished,” the curate said to himsey. This was his theory of 
the matter. He gave up with a sad heart the hope of being able^to 
move her now to love himself. He would nevei vex her even, 
with his hopeless love, he decided; never weary her with bootless 
protestations; never injure ihe conhdential position he had gained 
by asking more than could ever be given to him; but one day he 
would find out which was the culprit, and then Ombra should be 
avenged. 

Gleams of excitement began lo shoot across the tranquil cheeri- 
Bess ot the winter, when it was known that the two were coming 
again; and then other changes occurred, which made a diversion 
which was anything but agreeable in the Cottage. Ornbia said 
nothing to any one about hei feelings, but she became irritable, 
impatient, and unreasonable, as only those whose nerves are kept 


132 


OMBEA. 


in a state of painful agitation can be. The Berties stayed but a few 
days; they made one call at the Cottage, which was formal and 
constrained, and they were present one evening at the rectory to 
meet the old yachting-party, which had been so merry and so 
friendly in the summer. But it was merry no longer. The two 
young men seemed to have lost their gayety; they had gone in for 
work, they said, both in a breath, with a forced laugh, by way of 
apology for themselves. They said little to any one, and next to 
nothing to Ombra, who sat in a corner all the evening, and furtive- 
ly watched them, reddening and growing pale as they moved about 
from one to another. The day after they left she had almost a 
quarrel with her mother and cousin, to such a pitch had her irrita- 
bility reached; and then, for the first time, she burst into wild 
tears, and repented and reproached herself, till Mrs. Anderson and 
Kate cried their eyes out, in pitiful and wondering sympathy. But 
poor Ombra never quite recovered herself after this outburst. She 
gave herself up, and no longer made a stand against the honrd irri- 
tation and miser}' that consumed her. It affected her health, after 
a time, and filled the house with anxiety, and depression, and pain. 
And thus the winter went by, and spring came, and Kate Courte- 
nay, developing unawares, like her favorite primroses, blossomed 
into the fiow'ery season, and completed her eighteenth year. 


CHAPTER XKIV. 

Kate’s eighteenth birthday w^as in Easter week; and on the day 
before that anniversary a letter arrived from her uncle Courtenay, 
which filled the Cottage with agitation. During all this time she 
had written periodically and dutifully tc her guardian, Mrs. Ander- 
son being very exact upon that point, and had received occasional 
uoles frcm him in return; but»* something had pricked him to think 
of bis duties at this particular moment, though it was not rn agree- 
able subject to contemplate. He had not seen her for three years, 
and it can rrot be affirmed that the old man of the world would 
have been deeply moved had he never seen his ward again; out 
something had suggested to him the fact that Kate existed — that 
she was now eighteen, and that it was his business to look after 
her. Besides, it was the Easter recess, and a few days’ quiet and 
change of air were recommended by his doctor. For this no place 
could possibly be more suitable than Shanklin; so he sent a dry 
little letter to Kate, announcing an approaching visit, though with- 
out specifying any time. 


OMBRA. 


133 


The weather was fine, and the first croquet-party ot the season 
was to be held at the Cottage in honor of Kate’s birthday, so that 
the announcement did not perhaps move her sc much as it might 
have done. But Mrs. Anderson was considerably disturbed by the 
news. Mr. Courtenay was her natural opponent — the representa- 
tive of the other side of the house — a man who unquestionably 
though himself of higher condition, and better \)lood than herself;, 
he was used to great houses and good living, and would probably 
scorn the Cottage and Francesca’s cooking, and Jane’s not very 
perfect waiting; and then his very name carried with it a sugges- 
tion of change. He had left them quiet all this time, but it was 
certain that their quiet could not last forever, and the very first 
■warning of a visit fiom him seemed to convey in it a thousand inti- 
mations of other and still less pleasant novelties to come. What if 
he were coming to intimate that Kate must leave the peasant little 
house which had become her home?~what if he were coming to 
take her away? This was a catastrophe which her aunt shrunk 
fiom contemplating, not only tor Kale’s sake, but for other reasons, 
which were important enough, Bhehad sufficient cause tor anxiety 
in the clouded life and confused mind of her own child— but if 
such an alteration as this were to come in their peaceable existencet 
Mrs. Anderson’s eyes ran over the whole range of possibilities, as- 
over a landscape. How it would change the Cottage! Not only 
the want of Kate’s bright face, but the absence of so many com- 
forts and luxuries which her wealth had secured. On the other 
side, it was possible that Ombra might be happier in her present 
circumstances without Kate’s companionship, which threw her 
own gloom and irritability into sharper relief. She had always 
been, not jealous — the mother would not permit herself to use such 
a word— but sensitive (this was her tender paraphrase of an ugly 
reality), in respect to Kale’s possible interference with the love due 
to herself. Would she be better alone? — better without the second 
child, who had taken such a place in the house. It was a miser- 
able thought— miserable not only for the mother who had takeifc 
this second child intc her heart, but shameful to think of tor Om- 
bra’s own sake. But still it might be true; and in that case, not- 
withstanding the pain ot separation, notwithstanding the loss ot 
comfort, it might be tetter that Kate should go. Thus in a mo- 
ment, by the mere reading ot Mr. Courtenay’s dry letter, which 
meant chiefly, “ By the way, there is such a person as Kate— 1 
suppose 1 ought to go and see her,” Mrs. Anderson’s mind wa» 
driven into such sudden agitation and convulsion as happens to the 


OMBEA. 


134 

sea when a whirlwind falls upon il, and lashes it into sudden fury. 
She was driven this way and that, tossed up to the giddy sky, and 
down to the salt depths; her very sight seemed to change, and the 
steady sunshine wavered and flickered before her on the wall. 

“ Oh! what a nuisance!’' Kate had exclaimed on reading the 
letter; but as she threw it down on the table, after a second read- 
ing ak'Ud, her eye caught her aunt's troubled countenance. “ Are 
- you vexed, auntie? Don’t you like him to come? Then let me 
say so — 1 shall be so glad!” she cried. 

” My dearest Kate, how could 1 be anything but glad to see your 
guardian?” said Mrs. Anderson, recalling her powers; “ not for 
his sake, perhaps, for 1 don’t know^ him, but to show him that, 
whatever the sentiments of your father’s family may have been, 
there has been no lack of proper feeling on our side. The only 
Iking that troubles me is — The best room is so small; and will 
Francesca’s cooking be good enough? These old bachelors are sc 
particular. To be sure, we might have some things sent in from 
the hotel.” 

‘‘ If Uncle Courtenay comes, he must be content with what w'e 
have,” said Kate, flushing high. ‘‘Particular indeed! If it is 
good enough for us, 1 should just think— 1 suppose he knows 
you are not the Duchess of Shanklin, wiih a palace to put him in. 
And nob( dy wants him. He is coming for his own pleasure, not 
lor ours.” 

“ 1 wculd not say that,” said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ” 1 
want him. 1 am glad that he should come, and see with his own 
•eyes how you are being brought up.” 

” Being brought up! But 1 am eighteen. ? have stopped grew 
ing. 1 am not a child any longer. 1 brought up,” said Kate. 

Mrs. Anderson shook her head; but she kissed the girl’s blight 
face, and looked after her, as she went out, with a certain pride. 
” He must see how Kate is improved — she looks a different creat- 
^ ure,” she said to Ombra, who sat by in her usual languor, without 
much interest in the matter. 

“ Do you think he will see it, mamma? She was always bloom- 
ing and bright,” said neutral-tinted Ombra, with a sigh. And then 
she added, ” Kate is right, she is grown up— she is a wmmun, and 
not a child any longer. 1 feel the difference every day.” 

Mrs. Anderson looked anxiously at her child. 

You are mistaken, dear,” she said. ‘‘ Kate is very young in 
hex heart. She is childish even in some things. There is the 


OMBKA. 


135 


Ijreatest difterence between her and you— what you were at her 
age/’ 

“Yes, she is brighter, gayer, more attractive to everybody than 
ever 1 was,” said Ombra. “ As it 1 did not see that — as if: 1 did 
not feel every hour—” 

Mrs. Anderson placed herself behind Umbra’s chair, and drew 
her child’s head on to her bosom, and kissed her aggin and again. 
She was a woman addicted to caresses; but there was meaning in 
ihis excess of fondness. “ My love! my own darling!” she said; and 
then, very softly, after an interval, “ My only one!” 

“ Not your cnly one now,” said Ombra, with tears rushing to 
her eyes, and a little indignant movement; “ you have Kate — ” 

“ Ombra!” 

“Mamma, 1 am a little tired— a little— out of temper— I don’t 
know— what it is; yes, it is temper— 1 do know—” 

“ Ombra, you never had a bad temper. Oh! ii you would put 
a little more confidence in me! Don’t you think 1 have seen how 
depressed you have been ever since — ever since — ” 

“ Since when?” said Ombra, raising her head, her twilight* face 
lighting up with a flush and sparkle, half of indignation, half of 
terror. “ Do you mean that 1 have been making a show of — what 
1 felt — letting people see—” 

“ You made no show, darling; but surely it would be strange if 
1 did not see deeper than others. Ombra, listen.” She put her 
lips to her daughter’s cheek, and whispered — “ Since we heard 
they were coming back! Oh! Umbra, you must try to overcome it, 
to be as you used to be. Ycu repel him, dear, you thrust him 
away from you as if you hated him! And they are coming here 
today.” 

Umbra’s shadowy cheek colored deeper and deeper, her eyelashes 
drooped over it; she shrunk from her mother’s eye. 

“ Don’t say anything more,” she said, with passionate depreca- 
tion. “ Don’t! Talking can only make things worse. 1 am a 
fool! lam ashamed! 1 hate myself! It is temper— only temper, 
mamma!” 

“ My own child — my only child!” said the mother, caressing her;, 
and then she whispered once more, “ Ombra, would it be better fot 
you it Kate were away?” 

“ Better for me!” The girl flushed up out of her languor and pale- 
ness like a sudden storm. “ Oh! do you mean to insult me?” she 
cried, with passionate indignation. “ Do you think so badly ot 
me? Have 1 fallen sc low as that?” 


136 


OMBRA. 


“ My darling, forgive me! 1 meant that you thought she came 
between us — that you had need of all my sympathy/’ cried the 
re other, in abject humiliation. But it was some time before Onibiu 
"would listen. She was stung by a suggestion which revealed to 
her the real unacknowledged bitterness in her heart. 

“ You must despise me,’ she said, “ you, my own mother 1 Y^ou 
must fhink — oh! how badly of me! That 1 could be so mean, so 
miserable, such a poor creature! Oh! mother, how could you say 
«uch a dreadful thing to me?” 

“My darling!” said the mother, holding her in her arms; and 
gradually Ombra grew calm, and accepted the apologies which 
were made with so heavy a heart. For Mrs. Anderson saw by her 
yery vehemence, by the violence of the emotion produced by her 
words, that they were true. Hhe had been right, but she could 
not speak again on the subject. Perhaps Ombra had never before 
quite identified and detected the evil feeling in her heart; but both 
mother and daughter knew it now. And yet nothing more was to 
be said. The child was bitterly ashamed for herself, the mother 
for her child, it she could secretly and silently dismiss the other 
from her house, Mrs. Anaerson felt it had lecome her duty to do 
It; hut never to say a word on the subject, never to whisper, never 
to make a suggestion of why it was done. 

It may be supposed that after this conversation there was not 
very much pleasure to either of them in the croquet-party, when it 
assembled upon the sunny lawn. ISuch a day as it was! — all blos- 
soms, and brightness, and verdure, and life! the very grass grow- 
ing so that one could see it, the primroses opening under youi eyes, 
the buds shaking loose the silken foldings of a thousand leaves. 
The garden of the Cottage was bright with all the spring flowers 
that could be collected into it, and the cliff above was strewed all 
over with great patches of primroses, looking like' planets new- 
diopped out of heaven. Under the shelter of that cliff, with the 
sunshine blazing full upon the Cottage garden, but lightly shaded 
as yet by the trees which had net got halt their summer garments, 
the atmosphere was soft and warm as June; and the girls had put 
on their light dresses, rivaling the flowers, and everything looked 
like a sudden outburst of summer, of light, and brightness, and 
new existence. Though the mother and daughter had heav}’- hearts 
ouough, the only cloud upon the brightness of the party was in 
their secret consciousness. It was not visible to the guests. Mrs. 
Anderson was sufficiently experienced in the world to keep her 
troubles to herself, and Ombra was understood to be “not quite 


OMBRA. 


137 


well/' which accounted for everything, and earned her a hundred 
pretty attentions and cares from the others who were joyously well, 
and in high spirits, feeling that summer, and all their out-door 
pleasures, had come back. 

Nothing could be prettier than the scene altogether. The Cot- 
tage ^ood open, all its doors and windows wide in the sunshine; 
and now and then a little group became visible from the pretty 
veranda, gathering about the piano in the drawing-rocm, or look- 
ing at something they had seen a hundred times before, with theu 
always-ready interest of youth. Outside, upon a bench of state,, 
with bright parasols displayed, sat two or three mothers together, 
who were neither old nor wrinkled, but such as (not withstanding the 
presumption to the contrary) the mothers of girls of eighteen gen- 
erally are, women still in the full bloom of life, and as pleasant to 
Icok upon, in their way, as their own daughters. Mrs. Andersoa 
was there, as in duty bound, with a smile, and a pretty bonnet, 
smiling graciously upon her guests. Then there was the indis- 
pensable game going on on tire lawn, and supplying a center to 
the picture; and the girls and the boys who were not playing were 
wandering all about, climbing the cliT, peeping through the tele- 
scope at the sea, gathering primroses, putting themselves into pretty 
attitudes and groups, with an unconsciousness which made the 
combinations delightful. They all knew each other intimately, 
called each other by their Christian names, had grown up together, 
and were as familiar as brothers and sisters. Ombra sat in a. cor- 
ner, with some of the elder girls, “keeping quiet,” as they said, 
on the score of being “ not quite well;” but Kate was in a hun- 
dred places at once, the very center of the company, the soul of 
everything, enjoying herself, and her friends, and the sunshine, 
and her birthday, to the very height of human enjoyment. Sho 
was as proud of the little presents she had received that morning 
as it they had been of unutterable value, and eager to show them 
to everybody. She was at home— in Ombra’s temporary withdrawal 
from the eldest daughter’s duties, ICate, as the second daughter, 
took her place. It was the first time this had happened, and 
her long-suppressed social activity suddenly blossomed out again 
in full flower. With a frankness and submission- which no one 
could have expected from her, she had accepted the second place; 
but now that the first had fallen to her, naturally Kate occupied 
that too, with a thrill of long-forgotten delight. Never in Ombra’s 
day of supremacy had there been such a merry^ party. Kale in- 
spired and animated ererybody. She went about frcm one group 


138 


OMBRA. 


to another with feet that danced and eyes that laughed, an imper- 
"souation of pleasure and of youth. 

“ What a change there is in Kate! Why, she is giown up—she 
Is a child no longei!’" the rector’s wife said, looking at her from 
under her parasol. It was the second time these words had been 
«aid that morning. Mrs. Anderson was startled by them, and she, 
too, looked up, and her first glance of proud satisfaction in the 
flower which she had mellowed into bloom was driven out of her 
eyes all at once by the sudden conviction which forced itself upon 
her. Yes, it was true— she was a child no longer. Ombra’s day 
was.over, and Kate’s day had begun. 

A tear forced itself into her eye with this poignant thought; she 
was carried away from herself, and the bright groups around her, 
by the alarmed consideration, what would come of it?— how would 
Ombra bear it?— when, suddenly looking up, she saw the neat, trim 
figure of an old man, following dane, the house-maid, into the gar- 
den, with a look of mingled amazement and amusement. In- 
stinctively she rose up, with a mixture of dignity and terror, to 
encounter the adversary. For of course it must be he! On that 
day of all days! — at that moment of all nioments! — when the house 
was overflowing with guests, everything in disorder, Francesca’s 
hands fully occupied, high tea in course of preparation, and no 
possibility of a dinner— it was on that day, we repeat, of all others, 
with a malice sometimes shown by Providence, thai Mi. Courte- 
nay had come! 

CHAPTER XXV. 

With a malice scmetimes shown by Providence, we have said; 
and we feel sure that we are but expressing what many a troubled 
housewife has felt, and blamed herself for feeling. Is it not on 
such days— days which seem to be selected for their utter inccn- 
venience and general wretchedness — that troublesome and “ particu- 
lar ’’ visitors always do come? When a party is going on, and all 
the place is in gay disorder, as now it was, is it not then that the 
sour and cynical guest— the person who ought to be received with 
grave looks and sober aspect— suddenly falls upon us, as from the 
unkind skies? The epicure comes when we are sitting down to 
oold mutton— when the table-cloth is not so fresh as it might be. 
Everything of this accidental kind, or almost everything, follows 
the same rule, and therefore it is with a certain sense of malicious 
intention in the untoward fate which pursues us that so many of 
us regard such a hazard as this v/hich had befallen Mrs. Ander- 


OMBKA. 


13 ^ 

son. She rose with a feeling of impatient indignation which almost 
choked her. Tes, it was “ ]ust like ” what must happen. Of 
course it was he, because it was just the moment when he was not 
wanted— when he was unweicome«-ot course it must be he! But 
Mrs. Anderson was equal to the occasion, notwithstanding the hor^ 
rible consciousness that there was no room ready for him, no din- 
ner cooked or cookable, no opportunity, even, of murmuring a 
word of apology. She smoothed her brows bravely, and put on her 
most cheerful smile. 

“ 1 am very glad to see you — 1 am delighted that you have made* 
up your mind to come to see us at last,” she said, with dauntless, 
courage. 

Mr. Courtenay made her his best bow, and looked round upon the 
scene with raised eye-brows, and a look of criticism which went 
through and through her. “1 did not expect anything so brill- 
iant,” he said, rubbing his thin hands. ” 1 was not aware you were 
so gay in Shanklin.” 

Gayl If he could only have seen into her heart! 

For at that very moment the two Berties had joined the paity^ 
and were standing by Ombia in her corner; and the mother's eye was. 
drawn aside to watch them, even though this other guest stood 
before her. The two stood about in an embarrassed way, evi- 
dently not knowing what to do or sa}’. They paid their respects, 
to Ombra with a curious humility and deprecating eagerness; they 
looked at her as if to say, “ Don’t be angry with us— wc did not 
mean lo do anything to offend you;” whereas Ombra, on her side,, 
sat drawn back in her seat, with an air of consciousness an.1 ap- 
parent displeasure, which Mrs. Anderson thought everybody must 
notice. Gay!— ibis was what she had to make her so; her daughter 
cold, estranged, pale witn passion and disappointment, and an in- 
expressible incipient jealousy, hetiaying herself and her senti- 
ments; and the young men so disturbed, sc bewildered, not know- 
ing what stie meant. They lingered for a few minutes, waiting, 
it seemed, to see if perhaps a kinder reception might be given 
them, and then withdrew from Ombra with almost an expression 
of relief, to find more genial welcome elsewhere; while she sunk 
back languid and silent, in a dull misery, which was lit up by jeal- 
ous gleams of actual pain, watching tnem from under her eyelids,, 
noting, as by instinct, every one they spoke to or looked at. Poor 
Mrs. Anderson! she turned from this sight, and kept down the 
ache in her heart, and smiled and said, 

” Gay!— oh! no; but the children like a little simple amusement^. 


140 


OMBKA. 


and this is Kate’s birthday.” It he had but known what kind of 
gayety it was that filled her! — but had he known, Mr. Courtenay, 
fortunately, wciild not have undeistcod. He had ouigiown all such 
foolish imaginations. It never would have occurred to him to tor- 
ment himself as to a girl’s looks; but there seemed to him much 
more serious matters concerned, as he looked round the pretty 
lawn. He had distinguished Kate now, and Kate had just met the 
two Beities, and was talking to them with a little flush of eager- 
ness. Kate, like the others, did not know which Bertie it was who 
had thrust himself so perversely into her cousin’s life; but it had 
seemed to her, in her self-communings on the subject, that the 
thing to do was to be “ very civil ” tc the Berties, tc make the Cot- 
tage very pleasant to them, to win them back, so that Ombra might 
be unhappy no more. Half lor this elaborate reason, and half be- 
cause she was in high spirits and ready to make herself agreeable 
to everybody, she stood talking gayly to the two young men, with 
three pairs of eyes upon her. When had they come? how nice it was 
■of them to have arrived in time for her party! — how kind of Bertie 
Hardwick to bring her those flowers from Langton!— and w^as it not 
a lovely day, and delightful to be out in the air, and Degin summer 
again ! 

All this Kate went through with smiles and pleasant looks, w*hile 
they looked at her. Three pairs of eyes, all with desperate meaning 
in them. To Ombra it seemed that the most natural thing in the 
world was taking place. The love which she had rejected, which 
she had thrown away, was being transferred before her very face 
to her bright young cousin, who was wiser than she, and would 
not throw it away. It was the most natural thing in the world, 
but, ob, heaven, how bitter!— so bitter that to see it was death! 
3Ir5. Anderson watched Kate with a sick consciousness of w’hat 
w^as passing through her daughter’s mind, a sense of the injustice 
of it and the bitterness of it, yet a poignant sympathy with poor 
Ombra’s self-inflicted suffering. 

Mr. Courtenay’s ideas were very different, hut he was not less 
impressed by the group before his eyes. And the other people 
about looked too, feeling that sudden quickening of interest in Kale, 
which her guardian’s visit naturally awakened. They all knew 
by instinct that this was her guardian who had appeared upon the 
scene, and that something was going to happen. Thus, all at once, 
the gay party turned into a drama, liie secondary personages ai- 
langing themselves intuitively in the position of the chorus, look- 
ing on and recording the progress of the tale. 


OMBEA. 


141 


1 suppose Kate’s guardian must have come to fetch her away. 
What a loss she will be to the Andersons!” whispered a neighbor- 
ing matron, full of interest, in Mrs. Eldridge’s ear. 

“ One never can tell,” said that thoughtful woman. “ Kate is 
quite growm up now, and with two girls you never know when one 
may come in the other's way.” 

This was sc oracular a sentence that , it was difficult to pick up 
the conversation after it; but after a while the other went on — 

” Let us take a little walk, and see what the girls aie about. I 
understand Kate is a great heiress — she is eighteen now, is she not? 
Perhaps she is of age at eighteen.” 

“ Oh, 1 don’t think so,” said Mrs. Eldridge. ” The Courtenays 
don’t do that sort of thing; they are stanch old Tories, and keep 
up all the old traditions. But still Mr. Courtenay might think it 
best; and perhaps, from every point of view, it might be best. 
IShe has been very happy here; but still these kind of arrangements 
seldom last.” 

“Ah, yes!” said the ether, “there is no such dreadful respon- 
sibility as bringing up other people’s children. Sooner or later it is 
sure to bring cHspeace.” 

“ And a girl is never so well anywhere,” added Mrs. Eldridge, 
“as in her father’s house.” ^ 

Thus far the elder chorus. The young ones said to each other, 
with a flutter of confused excitement and sympathy, “ Oh, what 
an old ogre Kate’s guardian looks I” “ Has he come to can}’' her 
off, 1 wonder?” “ Will he eat her up it he does?” “ Is she fond 
of him? Will she go to live with him when she leaves the Cot- 
tage?” “ How she stands talking and laughing to the two Berties, 
without eyer knowing he is here!” 

Mrs. Anderson interrupted all this by a word. “ Lucy,” she 
said, to the eldest of the rector’s girls, “ call Kate to me, dear. Her 
uncle is here, and wants hei — say she must come at cnce.” 

“ Oh, it is her uncle!” Lucy whispered to the group that sur- 
rounded her. 

“ It is her uncle,” the chorus went on. “ Well, but he is an old 
ogre all (he same!” “Oh, look at Kate’s face!” “ How’ sur- 
prised she is!” “She is glad.” “Oh, no,‘she doesn’l like it.” 
“She prefers talking nonsense to the Berties.” “ Don’t talk so— 
Kate never flirts!” “ Oh, doesn’t she flirt?” “ But you may be 
sure the old uncle will not stand that.” 

Mr. Courtenay followed the movements of the young messenger 


142 


OMBKA. 


with his eyes. He had received Mrs. Anderson’s explanations 
smilingly, and begged her not to think of him. 

“ Pray, don’t suppose 1 have come to quarter myself upon you,’^ 
he said. “ I have rooms at the hotel. .Don’t let me distract your 
attention from your guests. 1 should like only to have two min- 
utes’ talk with Kate.” And he stood, urbane and cynical, and 
looked ruund him, wondering whether Kate’s money was paying 
lor the enteitainment, and setting down every young man he saw* 
as a fortune-hunter. They had all clustered together like ravens, 
to leed upon her, he thought. “This will never do— this will 
nev5r do,” he said to himself. liow he had supposed his niece to 
be living, it would be difficult to say; most likely he had never at- 
tempted to form any imagination at ad on the subject; but to see 
her thus surrounded by other young people, the center of admiration 
and observation, startled him exceedingly. 

It was not, how^ever, till Lucy^ w^ent up to her that he quite 
identified Kate. There she stood, smiling, glowing, a radiant, tall^ 
well-developed figure, with the two young men standing by. It 
required but little exercise of fancy to believe that bcth of them 
were under Kate’s sway. Ombra thought so, lookins: on darkly 
from her coiner; and it was not surprising that Mr. Courtenayr 
Bhoultl think so too. He stood petrified, while she turned rcund,^ 
with a flush of genial light on her face. She was glad to see him, 
though he had not much deserved it. She would have been glad to 
see any cne who had come to her with the charm of novelly. With 
a little eisclamation of pleasant wonder, she turned round, and made 
a bound toward him— her step, her figure, her whole aspect light as 
a bird on the wing. She left the young men without a word of ex- 
planation, in her old eager, impetuous way, and rushed upon him. 
Before he had roused himself up from his watch of her, she was by 
his side, putting out both her hands, holding up her peach-cheek 
to be kissed. Kate! was it Kate? She was not only tall, fair, and 
woman grown— that was iaevitable-rbut some other change had 
come over her, which Mr. Courtenay could not understand. She 
was a full-grown human creature, meeting him, as it were, on the 
same level; but there was another change less natural and more 
confusing, which Mr. Courtenay could make nothing ot. An air 
of celestial childhood, such as had never been seen in Kate Courte- 
nay, of Langton, breathed about her now. She was younger as 
well as older; she was what he never could have made her, what 
no hireling could ever have made her. She was a young creature, 
with natural relationshps, filling a natural place in the earth, obey- 


OMBKA. 


143 


Ing, submitting, influencing giving and receiving, loving and being 
loved. Mr, Courtenay, poor limited old man, did not know whal it 
meant; but he saw the change, he was startled. Was it — could it 
be Kate? 

“1 am so glad to see you, Unde Courtenay. So you have really, 
truly come? 1 am very glad to see you. It feels so natural— it is 
like being back again at Langton. Have you spoken to auntie? 
Hew surprised she must have been? We cnly got your letter this 
morning; and 1 never supposed you vould come so soon. It we 
had known, we would not have had all those people, and 1 should 
havegone to meet you. But never mind, uncle, it can’t be helped. 
To-morrow we shall have you all to ourselves.” 

‘‘ 1 am delighted co find you are sc glad to see me,” said Mr. 
Oourtenay. I scarcely thought you would remember me. But 
as for the enjoyment of my society that you can have at once, Kate, 
notwithstanding your party. Take me rcund the garden, or some- 
where. The others, you know, are nothing to me; but J. want to 
have some talk with you, Kate.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know what' my aunt will think,” said Kate, somewhat 
discomfited. ” Ombra is not very well to day, and 1 have to take 
her place among the people.” 

‘‘ But you must come with me in the meantime. 1 w^nt to talk 
to you.” 

She lif ted upon him for a moment a countenance which reminded 
him of the unmanageable child of Langton-Courtenay. But after 
this she turned round, consulted her aunt by a glance, and was back 
by his side instantly, with all her new youthfulness and grace. 

” Come along, then,” she said, gayly. ” There is not much to 
■show you, uncle— everything is so small; but such as it is, you 
«hall have all the benefit. Come along, you shall see everything — 
kitchen-garden and all.” 

And in another minute she had taken his arm, and was walking 
by his side along the garden path, elastic and buoyant, slim and 
tall— as tall as he was, which was not saying much, for the great 
Courtenays were not lefty of stature; and Kate’s mother’s family 
had that advantage. The blooming face she turned to him was 
on a level with his own; he could no longer look down upon it. 
She was woman grown, a creature no longer capable of being 
ordered about at any one’s pleasure. Could this be the little will- 
ful busybody, the crazy little princess, full of her* own granfleur, 
the meddling little gossip, Kate? 


144 


OMBEA. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“Does this sort of thing happen often?’' said Mr. Courtenayv 
leading Kate away round the farther side of the garden, much to 
the annoyance of the croquet players. The little kitchen garden 
lay on the other side of the house, out of sight even of the pretty 
lawn. He was determined to have her entirely to himself. 

“What sort of thing, Uncle Courtenay?” 

Ml. Courtenay indicated with a jerk of his thumb over his 
shoulder the company they had just left. 

“Oh! the croquet,” said Kate, cheerfully. “ No, not often hero 
—more usually it is at the rectory, or one of the other neighbors’. 
Our lawn is so small; but sometimes, you know, we must take our 
turn.” 

“ Oh! you must take your turn, must you?” he said. “ Are all 
these people your rectors, or neighbors, 1 shbuld like to knew?” 

“There are more Eldridges than anything else,” said Kate;. 
“ There are so many of them — and then all their cousins.” 

“ AhFT thought there must be cousins,” said Mr. Couitenay. 
“ Do you know you have grown quite a young woman, Kate?” 

“ Yes, Uncle Courtenay, 1 know ; and 1 hope 1 give you satisfac- 
tion,” she said, laughing, and making him a little courtesy. 

How changed she was! Her eyes, which were always so blight, 
had warmed and deepened. She was beautiful in her first bloom, 
with the blush of eightepn coming and going on her cheeks, and 
the fresh innocence of her look not fet harmed by any knowledge 
of the world. She was eighteen, and yet she was younger as w^ell 
as older than she had been at fifteen, fresher as well as more de- 
veloped. The old man of the world was puzzled, and did not make 
it out. 

“ You are altered,” he said, somewhat coldly; and then, “ 1 un- 
derstood from your aunt that you lived very quietly, saw' no- 
body—” 

“ Nobody but our friends,” explained Kate. 

“ Friends! 1 suppose you think everybody that looks pleasant is 
your friend. Good lack! good lack!” said the Mentor. “ Why 
this is society — this is dissipation. A season in town would be 
ncthing to it.” 

Kate laughed. She thought it a very good joke; and not the 


OMBRA. 


145 


iaintest idea crossed her mind that her uncle might mean what ho 
said. 

“ NVhy, there are four, five, six grown-up young men,” he said,, 
standing still and counting them as they came in sight of the lawn. 
” \Vhat is that but dissipation? And what are they all doing idle 
about here? Six young men I And who is that girl who is so un- 
happy, Kate?” 

” The girl who is unhappy, uncle!” Kate changed color; the in- 
stinct of concealment came to her at once, though the stranger 
could have no way of Knowing that there was anything to conceal. 
‘‘Oh! 1 see,” she added. ” You mean my cousin Ombra. She i^ 
not quite well; that is why she looks so pale.” 

1 am not easily deceived,” he said. ‘‘ Look here, Kale, 1 am 
a keen observer. She is unhappy, and you are in her way.” 

” I, uncle!” 

‘‘You need not be indignant. TTou, and no other. 1 saw her 
before you left your agreeable companions yonder. 1 think, Kate,, 
you had better do your packing and com^ away with me.” 

” With you, uncle?” 

“ These are not very pleasant answers. Precisely— with me. 

Am 1 so much less agreeable than that pompous aunt?” 

” Uncle Courtenay, you seem to forget who 1 am, and all about 
it!” cried Kate, reddening, her eyes brightening. “My aunt! 
Why, she is like my mother. 1 would not leave her for all the 
world. 1 will net hear a word that is net respectful to her. Why, 
1 belong to her! You must forget — 1 am sure 1 beg your par- 
don, Uncle Courtenay,” she added, after a pause, subduing her- 
self. ” Of course you don’t mean it; and now that 1 see you are 
joking about my aunt, of course you were only making fun of me 
about Ombra too.” 

” 1 am a likely person to make fun,” said Mr. Courtenay. ” 1 
know nothing about your Ombras; but 1 am right, nevertheless,, 
though the fact is of no importance. 1 have one thing to say, how- 
ever, which is of importance, and that is, 1 can’t have this sort of 
thing. Y’ou understand me, Kate? You are a young woman of 
properly, and will have to move in a very different sphere. 1 can’t 
allow you to begin your career with the Shanklin tea parties. VVe 
must put a stop to that.’' 

” 1 assure j^ou. Uncle Courtenay,” cried Kate, very gravely, and 
with indignant state, ” that the people here are as good as either 
you or 1. The Eldridges are of very good family. By the bye, 1 
forgot to mention, they are cousins of our old friends at the Lang- 


146 


OMBRA. 


ton Rectory— the Hardwicks. Don’t you remember, uncle? And 
Bertie and the rest — 3'^ou remember Bertie? — visit here.” ' 

“ Oh! they visit here, do they?” said Mr. Courtenay, with mean- 
ing locks. 

Something kept Kate from adding, “He is here now.” She 
meant to have done so, but could net, somehow. Not that she 
; cared for Bertie, sire declared loftily to herself; but it was edious 
; to talk to any one who was always taking things into his head! So 
i she meiely nodded, and made no other reply. 

“1 suppose you are impatient to be back to your Eldridges, and 
people of good family?” he said. “ The best thing for you%would 
be to consider all this merely a shadow, like your friend with the 
odd name. But 1 am very much surprised at Mrs. Anderson. She 
ought to have known belter. What! must 1 not say as much as 
that?” 

“ Not to me, if you please, uncle,” cried Kate, with all the heat 
of a youthful champion. 

He smiled somewhat grimly. Had ^he girl taken it into her 
foolish head to have loved him, Mr. Courtenay would have been 
much embarrassed by the unnecessary sentiment. But yet this 
foolish enthusiasm for a person on the other side of the house— for 
one of the mother’s people, who was herself an interloper, and had 
. leally nothing to do with the Courtenay stock, struck him as a 
robbery from himself. He felt angry, though he was aware it was 
absurd. 

“ 1 snail take an opportunity, however, of making my opinion 
very clear,” he said, deliberately, with a pleasurable sense that at 
least he could make this ungrateful, unappreciative child unhappy, 
“The latter half of this talk was held at the corner of the lawn, 
where the two stood together, much observed and noted by all the 
patty. The young people all gazed at Kate’s guardian with a mixt- 
ure of wonder and awe. What cculd he be going to do to her? 
They felt his disapproval afiect them somehow like a cold shade; 

: and Mrs. Anderson felt it also, ?^nd was disturbed more than she 
would show, and once more felt vexed and disgusted indeed with 
Providence, which had so managed matters as to send him on such 
a day. 

I “ He looks as if he were displeased,’^ she said to Ombra, when 
I her daughter came near her, and she could indulge herself in a 
I moment’s confidence. 

I' “ What does it matter how he looks?” said Ombra, who herself 
f looked miserable enough. 


OMBRA. 


ur 


“ Mv darliDg, it is for poor Kale’s sake.’* 

“Oh! Kate! always Kate! 1 am tired of Kate!” said Ombra,. 
sinking down listlessly upon a seat. Bhe had the louk of being 
tired of all the rest of the world. Her mother whispered to her, m 
a tone of alarm, to bestir herself, to try to exert herself, and enters- 
tain their guests. 

“ People are asking me what is the naatter with you already,” 
said poor Mrs. Anderson, distracted with these conflicting cares. 

“ Tell them it is temper that is the matter,” said poor Ombra. 
And then she rose, and made a poor attempt once more to be gay. 

This, however, was not long necessary, for Kate came back,, 
flushed, and in wild spirits, announcing that her uocle had gone, 
and took the whole burden of the entertainment on her own 
shoulders. Even this, though it was a relief to her, Ombra felt as 
an injury. She resented Kate’s assumption of the first place; she 
resented the wistful looks which her cousin directed to herself, and 
all lier caressing words and ways. 

“ Dear Ombra, go and rest, and 1 will look after these tiresome 
people,” Kate said, putting her arm round her. 

“ 1 don’t want to rest— pray take no notice of me — let me alone!” 
cried Ombra. it was temper— certainly it was temper — nothing 
more. 

“ But don’t think you have got rid of him, auntie, dear,” whis- 
pered Kate, in Mrs. Andei son’s ear. ” He says he is coming tack 
to night, when all these people are gone— or if not to-night, at least 
to morrow morning— to have some serious talk. Let us keep every- 
body as late as possible, and balk him for to-night.” 

“ Why should 1 wish to balk him, my dear?” said Mrs. Ander- 
son, with all her natural dignity. “ He and 1 can have but one 
meeting-ground, one common interest, and that is your welfare. 
Kale.” 

“ Well, auntie, 1 want to balk him,” cried the girl, *' and 1 shal> 
do all 1 can to keep him ofl:. Aftei tea we shall have some music,”" 
she added, with a laugh, “ for the Berties, auntie, who are so fond 
of music. The Berties must stay as long as possible, and then 
everything wiU come right.” 

Poor Mrs. Andeison! she shook her head with a kind of mild 
despair. The Berties wxre as painful a subject to her as Mr. 
Courtenay. Bhe was driven to her wits’ end. To her the disap- 
proving look of the latter was a serious business; and if she could 
have done it, instead of tempting them to slay all niafht, she would 
fain have sent oft the two Berties to the end of the world. All this 


148 


OMBRA. 


she had to bear upon her weighted shoulders, and all the time to 
smile, and chat, and make herself agreeable. Thus the pretty Ely- 
sium of the Cottage— its banks of early tioweis, its flush of Spring 
vegetation and blossom, and the gay group on the lawn— was like 
a rose with canker in it— plenty of canker— and seated deep in the 
very heart of the bloom. 

But Kate managed to carry out her intention, as she generally 
did. She delayed the high tea which was to wind up the rites of 
the afternoon. When it was no longer possible tc put it ofl:, she 
lengthened it out to the utmost of her capabilities. She introduced 
music atterw^ard, as she had threatened— in short, she did every- 
thing an ingenious young woman could do to extend the festivities. 
AVhen she felt quite sure that Mr. Couitenay must have given up 
all thought of repeating his visit to the cottage, she relaxed in her 
exertions, and let the guests go— not reflecting, poor child, in her 
innocence, that the lighted windows, the music, the gay chatter of 
conversation which Mr. Courtenay heard when he turned baflled 
from the cottage door at nine o’clock, had confirmeii all his doubts, 
and quickened all his feats. 

“INow, auntie, dear, we are safe— at least, for to-night,” she 
said; ” for 1 fear Uncle Courtenay means to make himself dis- 
agreeable. 1 could see it in his face — and 1 am suie you are not 
able tor any more worry to night.” 

‘‘1 hive no reason to be afraid of your uncle Courtenay, my 
dear.” 

‘‘Oh! no— of course not; but you are tired. And where is 
Omhra? Ombra, where are you? What has become of her?” 
cried Kate. 

” She is more tired than 1 am— perhaps she has gone to bed. 
Kate, my darling, don’t make her talk to-night.” 

Kate did not hear the end of this speech; she had rushed away, 
calling Omhra through the house. There was no answer, but she 
saw a shadow in the veranda, and hurried there to see who it was. 
There, under the green climbing tendrils of the clematis, a dim 
figure was standing, clinging to the rustic pillar, looking out into 
the darkness. Kate stole behind her, and put her arm round her 
cousin’s waist. To her amazement, she was thrust away, but not 
so quickly as to be unaware that Ombra was crying. Kate’s con- 
stei nation was almost beyond the power of speech. 

” Oh! Ombra, what is wrong?— are you ill?— have 1 done any- 
thing? Oh! 1 can not bear to see you cry!” 


OMBKA. 


149 


“lam not crying,” was the answer, in a voice made steady by 
pride. 

“ Don't be angry with me, please. Oh! Ombra, 1 am so sorry! 
Tell me what it is!” cried wisttul Kale. 

“ It is temper,” cried Ombia, atter a pause, with a sudden out- 
burst of sobs. “ There, that is all; now leave me to myseif, after 
you have made me confess. It is temper, temper, temner— noth- 
ing! 1 thought I had not any, but I have the temper of a fiend, 
and 1 am trying to struggle against it. Oh! tor heaven’s sake, let 
me alone!” 

Kate look away her arm, and withdrew herself humbly, with a 
grieved and wondering pain in her heart. Ombra with the temper 
of a fiend!— Ombra repulsing her, turning away from her, reject- 
ing her sympathy! She crept to her little white bedroom, all silent, 
and frightened in her surprise, not knowing what to think. Was 
it a mere caprice— a cloud that would be over to-morrow ?— was it 
only the result of illness and weariness? — or had some sudden cur- 
tain been drawn aside, opening to her a new mystery, an un- 
suspected darkness in this sweet life? 


CHAPTER XXYll. 

Long aftei Kate’s little bedchamber had fallen into darkness, the 
light still twinkled in the windows of the Cottage drawing-rocm. 
T.he lamp was slill alight at midnight, and Ombra and her mother 
sat together, with the marks of tears on their cheeks, still talking, 
discussing, going over their difficulties. 

“ 1 could bear him to go away,” Ombra had said in her passion; 

1 could bear never to see him again. Sometimes 1 think 1 should 
he glad. Oh! 1 am ashamed — ashamed to the bottom of my heart 
to care for one who perhaps cares no longer for me! If he would 
onl} go away; or if 1 could run away, and never more see him 
again! It is not that, mamma— it is not that. It is my own fault 
that 1 am unhappy. After what he said to me, to see him with— 
her! Yes, though 1 should die with shame, 1 ivill tell you the 
truth. He comes and looks at me as if 1 were a naughty child, 
and then he goes and smiles and talks' to after all he said. 
Oh! it is temper, mamma, vile temper and jealousy, and 1 don’t 
know what! 1 hate her then, and him; and 1 detest myself. I 
could kill myself, so much am L ashamed!” 

‘‘Ombra! Ombra! my darling, don’t speak so!— it is so unlike 
you!” 


150 


OMBKA. 


“Yes/’ she said, with a certain scorn, “ it is so unlike me that I 
was appalled at myselt when I found it out. But what do yom 
know about me, mothei? How can you tell 1 might not be cap- 
able of anything that is bad, if 1 were only tempted, as well as 
this?”. 

“My darling! my darling!’* said the mother, in her consterna- 
tion, not knowing what to say. 

“ Yes,” the girl went on, “your darling, whom you have 
brought up out of the reach of evil, who was always so gentle, and 
so quiet, and so good. 1 know— 1 remember how I have heard 
people speak of me. 1 was called Ombra because 1 was such a 
shadowy, still creature, too gentle to make a noise. Oh! how often 
1 have heard that I was good; until 1 was tempted. If 1 were- 
tempted to murdcjr anybody, perhaps 1 should be capable of it. I 
feel half like it sometimes now.” 

Mrs. Anderson laid her hand peremptorily on her daughter’s arm.. 

“ This is monstrous!” she said. “ Ombra, you have talked your- 
self into a state of excitement. 1 will not be sorry for you any 
longer. It is mere madness, and it must be brought to a close.” 

“ It is not madness!” she cried — “ 1 wish it were. 1 sometimes 
hope it will come to be. It is temper!— temper ! and 1 hate it! And 
1 can not struggle against it. Every time he goes near ner— every 
time she speaks to him! Oh! it must be some devil, do you think 
— like the devils in the Bible — that has got possession of me?” 

“ Ombra, you are ill— you must go to bed,” said her mother. 

•* Why do you shake your head? Abu will wear youisclf into a 
fever; and what is to become of me? Think a little of me. 1 have 
troubles, too, though they are not like yours. Try to turn your 
mind, dear, from what vexes you, and sympathize with me. Think 
what an unpleasant surprise to me to see that disagreeable old man: 
and that he should have come to-day of all days; and the interview 
I shall have to undergo to-morrow—” 

“Mamma,” said Ombra, with reproof in her tone, “ how strange 
it is that you should think of such trifles. What is he to you? 
A man whom you care nothing for— whom we have nothing to de 
with.” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, with eyes steadily fixed upou 
her daughter, “ 1 have told you before it is for Kate's sake.” 

“Ohl Kate!” Ombra made a gesture of impatience. In her 
present mood, she could not bear her cousin’s name. But her 
mother had been thinking over many things during this long after- 
noon, which bad been so gay, and dragged so heavily. She had. 


OMBRA. 


lol 


considered the whole situation, and had made up her mind, so far 
as it was practicable, to a certain course ot action. Neither for 
love’s sake, nor for many ether considerations, could slie spare 
Kate. Even Ombra’s feelings must yield, though she had been so 
indiscreet even as tc contemplate the idea of sacriticing Kate for 
Ombra’s feelings. But now she had thought better of it, and had 
made up her mind to take it for granted that Ombra too could only 
leel as a sister to Kate. 

“ Ombra, you are warped and unhappy just now; you don’t do 
justice eitlier to your cousin or yourself. But, even at this mo- 
ment, surely you can not have thrown aside everything; you can 
not be devoid of all natural feeling fer Kate.” 

“ 1 have no natural feeling,” she said, hoarsely. ” Have not 
1 told you so? 1 would not allow myself to say it till you put it 
into my head. But, mamma, it is true. 1 want her out of my 
wa 3 ^ Oh, you need not look so hoiritied; you thought so your- 
self this morning. Prom the first, 1 felt she was in my way. She 
deranged all our plans— she came between you and me. Let her 
.gol she is richer than we are, and better off. Why should she 
stay here, interfering with our life? Let her go! 1 want her out 
of my wayl” 

” Ombra!” said Mis. Anderson, rising majestically from her 
chair. She was so near breaking down altogether, and for getting 
every other consideration for her child’s pleasure, that it was neces- 
sary to her tc be very majestic. ” Ombra, 1 should have thought 
that proper feeling alone — yes, proper feeling! a sense of what was 
fit and becoming in our position, and in hers. You turn away — 
ymu will not -listen, well, then, it is for me to act. it goes to my 
heart to feel myself alone like this, having to oppose my own 
child. But, since it must be so, since you compel me to act by 
myself, 1 tell you plainly, Ombra, 1 will not give up Kate. She is 
alone in the world; she is my only sister’s only child; she is—” 

Ombra put her hands to her ears in petulance and anger. 

” 1 know. ” she cried; ” spare me the rest. 1 know all her de- 
scripliou, and what she is to me.” 

” She is five hundred a year,” said Mrs. Anderson, secretly in 
her heart, with a heavy sigh, tor she was ashamed to acknowledge 
to herself that this tact would come into the foreground. ” 1 will 
not give the poor child up,” she said, with a voice that faltered. 
Bitter to her in every way was this controversy, almost the first in 
which she had ever resisted Ombra. Though she looked majestic 
in conscious virtue, what a pained and faltering heart it was which 


152 


O^IBRA. 


she concealed under that resolute aspect! She put away the books 
and work-basket from the table, and lighted the candles, and 
screwed down the lamp with indescribable inward tremors. If 
sbe considered Umbra alone in the matter, and Umbra was habit- 
ually, invariably her first object, she would be compelled to 
abandon Kate, whom she loved— and loved truly!— and five hun- 
dred a year would be taken out of their housekeeping at once. 

Poor Mrs. Anderson! she was not mercenary, she was fond of 
her niece, but she knew how much comfort, hoiv much modest im- 
portance, how much ease of mind, was in five hundred a year.. 
When she settled in the Cottage at first, she had made up her mind 
and arranged all her plans on the basis of her own small income, 
and had anxiously determined to “ make it do,'* knowing that the 
task would be difficult enough. But Kate’s advent had changed 
all that. She had brought relief from many petty cares, as well 
as many comforts and elegancies with her. They could have done 
without them before she came, but now what a difference this 
withdrawal would make! Umbra herself would feel it. “ Umbra 
w^ould miss her cousin a great deal more than she supposes,” Mrs. 
Anderson said to herself, as she went upstairs; “and, as for me, 
how 1 should miss her!” She went intc Kate’s room that night 
with a sense in her heart that she had something to make up ta 
Kate. She had wronged her in thinking of the five hundred a year; 
but, for all that, she loved her. She stole into the small white 
chamber very softly, and kissed the sleeping face with most 
motherly fondness. W'as it her fault that two sets of feelings— two 
different motives, influenced her? The shadow of Kate's future 
wealth, of the splendor and power to come, stood by the side of the 
little white bed in which lay a single individual of that species of 
God’s creation which appeals most forcibly to all tender sympathies 
— an innocent, unsuspecting girl; and the shadow of worldly dis- 
interestedness came into the room with the kind-hearted woman,, 
who would have been good tc any motherless child, and loveii this 
one with all her heart. And it is so difficult to discriminate the 
shadow from the reality; the false from the true. 

Mr. Ccurtonay came to the Cottage next morning, and had a 
solemn and long interview with Mrs. Anderson. Kate watched 
about the door, and hovered in the passages, hoping to be called in.. 
She would have given a great deal to be able to listen at the key- 
hole, but reluctantly yielded to honor, which forbade such an in- 
dulgence. AV hen she saw her uncle go away without asking for 
her, her heart sunk; and. still more did her heart sink when she 


OMBKA. 


153 


perceived the solemn aspect with which her aunt came into the 
drawing-room. Mrs. Anderson was very solemn and stately, as 
majestic as she had been the night before, but there was relief and 
comfort in her eyes. She looked at the two girls as she came in 
with a smile of tenderness which looked almost like pleasure, 
Ombra was writing at the little table in the window — some of her 
poetry, no doubt. Kate, in a most restless state, had been dancing 
about from her needle-work to her music, and from that to three or 
four books, which lay open, one here and one there, as she had 
thrown them down. 'When her aunt came in she stopped suddenly 
in the middle of the room, with a yellow magazine in hei hand, 
almost too breathless to ask a question; while Mrs. Anderson seated 
herself at the table, as if in a pulpit, brimful of scmething to say. 

“ Yrhat is it, auntie?"' cried Kate. 

“ My clear children, both of you,*' said Mrs. Anderson, “1 
have something very important to say to you. You may have sup- 
posed, Kate, that 1 did not appreciate your excellent uncle; but 
BOW that 1 know his real goodness of heart, and the admirable 
feeling he has shown— Ombra, do give up your writing for a mo- 
ment. Kate, your uncle is anxious tc give us all a holiday— he 
wishes me to take you abroad.’’ 

“ Abroad!” cried both the girls together, one in a shrill tone, as 
of bewilderment and desperation, cne joyous as delightcould make 
it. 31rs. Anderson expanded gradually, and nodded her head. 

“For many reasons,” she said, significantly, “your uncle and 
1, on talking it over, decided that the very best thing for you both 
would be to make a little tour, fie tells me you have long wished 
for it, Kate. And to Ombra, too, the novelty will be of use — ” 

“ Koveltyl” said Ombra, in a tone of scorn. “ Where does he 
mean us to go, then? To Japan, or Timbuctoo, 1 suppose.” 

“ Kot quite so far,” said her mother, trying to smile. “We 
bave been to a great many places, it is true, but not all the places 
in the world; and to go back to Italy, for instance, will be novelty, 
even though we have been there before. We shall go with every 
comfort, taking the pleasantest way, Ombra, my love!” 

“Oh! you must settle it as you please,” cried Ombra, rising 
hastily. She put her papers quickly together; then, with her im- 
petuous movements, swept halt of them to the ground, and rushed 
to the door, not pausing to pick them up. But there she paused, 
nud turned round, her face pale with passion. “ Y'ou know you 
don’t mean to consult me.” she said, hurriedly. “ What is the use 
of making a pretense? Y'ou must settle it as you please.” 


154 


OMBKA. 


“ What is tlie matter?” said Kate, after she had disappeared, 
growing pale with sympathy. ‘‘Oh! auntie dear, what is the mat- 
ter? She was never like this before.” 

” She is ill, poor child,” said the mother, who was distracted, 
but dared not show it. And then she indulged herself in a few 
tears, giving an excuse for them which betrayed nothing. “Oh! 
Kate, what will become of me if there is anything serious the mat- 
ter? She is ill, and 1 don’t know what to do!” 

” Send for the doctor, aunt,” suggested Kate. 

” The doctor can do nothing, dear. It is a — a complaint her 
father had. She would not say anything to the doctor. She has 
been vexed and bothered — ” 

“ Then this is the very thing for hei,” said Kate. ‘‘ This will 
cure her. They gay change is good for every one. IVe have been 
so long shut up in this poky little place.” 

On other occasions Kate had sworn that the island and the Cot- 
tage were the spots in all the world most dear to her heart. This 
was the hrst effect of novelty upon her. She felt, in a moment,, 
that her aspirations were wide as the globe, and that she had been 
cooped up all her life. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Anderson, fervently, ”1 have felt it. We 
have not been living, we have been vegetating,. With change she 
will be better. But it is illness that makes her irritable. Aoumust 
promise nre to be very gentle and forbearing with her, Kate.” 

” 1 gentle and forbearing to Ombra!” cried Kate, half laughing,, 
half crying — ” 1! When 1 think what a cub of a girl 1 must have 
been, and how good— how good you both were! Surely everybody 
in the world should fail you sooner than 1!” 

‘‘ My dear child,” sard Mrs. Anderson, kissing her with true 
afiedtion ; and once more there was a reason and feasible excuse for 
the tears of pain and trouble that would come' to her eyes. 

The plan was perfect— everything that could he desired; but if 
Ombra set her face against it, it must come to nothing. It was with 
this thought in her mind that she went upstairs to her troublesome 
and suffering child. 

CHAPTER XXYlll. 

Ombra, however, did not set her face against it. What diffi- 
culty the mother might have had with her, no one kneiv, and she 
appeared no more that day, having ” a bad headache,” that con- 
venient cause for all spiritual woes. But next morning, when she 


OMBKA.. 


155 


came down, tliou"li her face was pale, there was no other trace 
in her manner of the struggle her submission had cost her, and the 
whole business was settled, and even the plan of the journey had 
begun to be made. Already, in this day of Umbra’s retirement, the 
nesvs had spread far and wide. Kate had put on her hat directly, 
and had flown across tc the rectory to tell this wonderful piece of 
news. It was scarcely less interesting there than in the Cottage, 
though the effect was different. The Eldridges raised a universal 
wail. 

“ Oh! what shall we do without you?'’ cried the girls and the 
beys— a reflection which almost brought the tears to Kate’s cwn 
eyes, yet pleased her notwithstanding. 

“ You will not mind so much when you get used to it. We 
shall mi'is you as much as you miss us— oh! 1 wish you were all 
coming with us!” she cried; but Mrs, Eldridge poured cold water 
on the whole by suggestimr that piobably Mrs. Anderton would let 
the Cottage for the summer, and that some one who was nice might 
take it and fill up the vacant place till they came back; which was 
an idea not taken in good part by Kate. 

On her way home, she met Mr. Sugden, and told him; she told 
him in haste, in the lightness of her heart ana the excitement of 
the moment; and then, petrified by the effect she had produced, 
stood still and stared at him in alarm and dismay. 

“Oh! Mr. Sugden, lamsureldid not mean— I did not think— ” 

“ Going away?” he said, in a strange, dull, feelmgless way. 
“ All! for six months— 1 beg your pardon— 1 am a little confused. 
1 have just heard some— some bad news. Did you say going away?” 

“ 1 am so sorry,” said Kale, faltering—” so very sorrry. 1 hope 
3t is not anything L have said — ” 

“ You have said?” he answered, with a dull smile — “ oh! no. I 
have had— bad news, and 1 am a little upset. Y^ou are going away? 
It is sudden, is it not?— or perhaps you thought it best not to 
speak. Shanklin will look odd without you,” he went cn. looking 
at her. He looked at her with a vague defiance, as if daring her tc 
find him out. He tried to smile; his eyes were very lack-luster and 
dull, as it all the vision had suddenly been taken out of them; 
and his very altitude, as he stood, was feeble, as if a sudden touch 
might have made him fall. 

“ Y^es,”said Kate humbly, “ 1 am sorry to leave Shanklin and 
•j»ll my friends; but my ancle wishes it for me, and as Ombra is so 
poorly, we thought it might do her good.” 


156 




“ Ah!” he said, drawing a long breath; and then he added hur- 
riedly— “ Does she like il ? does s/ie think it will do her good?” 

” 1 don't thinii she likes it at all,” said Kate— “ she is so fond 
of home; but we all think it is the best thing. Good-bye, Mr. 
Sugden. 1 hope you will come and see us. I must go home now, 
for 1 have so much to do.” 

” Yes, thanks. 1 will come and see you,” said the curate. And 
then he walked on mechanically— straight on, not knowing where 
he was going. He was stunned by the blow. Though he knew 
very well that Ombia was not for him, though he had seen her 
taken, as it were, out of his very hands, there was a passive 
strength in his nature which made him capable of bearing this. So 
long as no active step was taken, he could bear it. It had gone to 
his heart with a penetrating anguish by limes tc see her given up 
Yo the attentions of another, receiving, as he thought, the love 
of another, and smiling upon it. But all the while she had 
smiled also upon himself; she had treated him with a friend- 
ly sweetness which kept him subject; she had filled his once 
unoccupied and languid soul with a host of poignant emotions. 
Love, pain, misery, consolaticn— life itself, seemed to have come to 
him from Ombra. Before he knew her, he had thought pleasantly 
of cricket and field-sports, conscientiously of his duties, piteously 
of the mothers’ meetings, which were so sadly out of his way, and 
yet were supposed to be duty too. 

But Ombra bad opened to him another life — an individual world, 
which was his, and no ether man’s. She had made him very 
unhappy and very glad; she had awakened him to himself. 
There was that in him which would have held him to her with 
a pathetic devotion all his life. It was in him to liave served 
the first woman that woke his heart with an ideal constancy, 
the kind of devotion— forgive the expression, O intellectual reader! 
which makes a dull man sublime, and which dull men most often 
exhibit. He was not clever, our poor curate, but he was true as 
steel, and had a helpless, obstinate way of clinging to his loves and 
friendships. "Never, whatever happened, though she had married, 
and even though he had married, and the world had rolled on, and 
all the events of life had sundered them, could Ombra have been ta 
him like any other won>an; and now she was the undisputed 
qu^en and mistress of his life. She was never to be his ; but still 
she was bis lady and his queen. He was ready to have saved her 
even by the sacrifice of all idea of personal happiness on his own 
part. His heart was glowing at the present moment with indignant 


OMBKA. 


lor 

sorrow over lier, with fury toward one of the Berties—he did not 
know which— who had brought a mysterious shadow over her life; 
and yet he was capable of making an heroic effort to bring back, 
that Bertie, and to place him by Ombra's side, though every step 
he took in doing so would be over his own heart. 

All this was in hfm ; but it was not in him to brave this alto- 
gether unthought-of-catastrophe. To have her go away; to find 
himself left with all life gone out of him; to have the heart torn, 
as it were, out of his breast; and to feel the great bleeding, aching 
void which nothing could fill up. He had foreseen all the other 
pain, and was prepared lor it; but for this he was not prepared. 
He w^alked straight on, in a dull misery, without the power tp 
think. Going away! for six months! Which meant simply for 
ever and ever. Where he would have stppped, 1 can not tell, for he 
was young and athletic, and capable of traversing the entire island, 
if he had not walked straight into the sea over the first headland 
which came in his way— a conclusion which would not have been 
disagreeable to him in the present state of his feelings; though he 
could scarcely have drowned had he tried. But fortunately he met 
the Berties ere he had gone very far. They were coming from San- 
down Pier. 

“Have you got the yacht here?’’ he asked, mechanically; and 
then, before they could understand, broke into the subject ot 
wdiich his heart and brain were both full. “ Have you heard that 
the ladies ot tne Cottage are going away?” 

This sudden introduction of the subject which occupied him so 
much, was indeed involuntary. He could not have helped talking 
about it; but at the same time it was done with a purpose — that he 
might, if possible, make sure wliicJi it was. 

“ The ladies at the Cottage!” They both made this exclamation 
in undeniable surprise. And he could not help, even in his misery; 
feeling a little thrill of satisfaction that he knew better than they. 

“ Yes,” he said, made bolder by this feeling cf superiority, “ they 
are going to leave Shankliu for six months.” 

The two Berties exchanged looks. He caught their mutual con- 
sultation with his keen and jealous eyes. What was it they said 
to each other? He was not clever enough to discover; but Beftie 
Hardwick drew a long breath, and said, “It is sudden, surely,” 
with an appearance of dismay which Mr. Sugden, in his own suffer- 
ing, was savagely glad to see. 

“ Very sudden,” he said. “1 only heard it this morning. U 
will make a dreadful blank to us.” 


158 


OMBRA. 


And then the three stood gazing at eacn other for nearly a min- 
ute, saying nothing: evidently the two cousins 'did not mean to 
'Commit themselves. Bertie Eldridge switched his boot with his 
cane. “ Indeed!” had been all he said; but he loolred down, and 
did not meet the curate’s eye.' 

” Have ycu got the yacht here?” Mr. tSughen repeated, hoping 
that if he seemed to relax his attention something might be ga ned. 

Yes, she is lying at the pier, ready for a long cruise,” said 
Bertie Hardwick. ” We are more ambitious than last year. We are 
going to—” 

” Norway, 1 think,” said Eldridge, suddenly. ” There is no 
:^')ort to be had now but in out-of-the-way places. We are bound 
for Scandinavia, Sugden.- Can you help us? 1 know you have 
been there.” 

” Scandinavia,” the other Bertie echoed, with a half whistle, 
half exclamation; and an incipient smile came creeping about the. 
corners of the brand-new mustache of Which he was so proud. 

” 1 am rather out of sorts to-day,” said the curate. ” 1 have had 
disagreeable netvs from home; but another lime L shall be very 
glad. Scandinavia! Is the ‘Shadow’ big enough and steady 
enough for the northern seas?” 

And theh, as he pronounced the name, it suddenly occurred to 
him why the yacht was called the ” Shadow.” The thought 
brought with it a poignant sense of contrast, which went through 
and through him like an arrow. They could call their yacht after 
her, paying her just such a subtle, inferred compliment as girls 
•iove. And they could go away now, lucky fellows, to new places, 
to savage seas, where they might fight against the elements, and 
delude their sick hearts (if they possessed such things) by a strug- 
gle with nature. Poor curate! he had to stay and superintend the 
mothers' meetings— which also was a struggle with nature, though 
after a different kind. 

“Oh! she will do very well,” said Bertie Eldridge, hastily. 

Look sharp, Bertie, here is the dog-cart. We are going to Kyde 
for a hundred things she wants, i shall send her round there to- 
jnorrow. Will you come?” 

“ I can’t,” said the curate, almost rudely; and then even his un- 
offending hand seized upon a dart that lay in his way. “ How 
does all this yachting suit your studies?” he said. 

Bertie Hardwick laughed. “It does not suit them at all,” he 
:said, jumping into the dog-cart. “ Good bye, old fellow. 1 think 
should change your mind, and come with us to-morrow!” 


PMBEA. 


15 (> 

“ 1 won'i,” said the curate, under his breath; but they did not 
hear him— they dashed oft, in very good spirits, apparently nowise 
affected by his news. As ft r Mr. Sugden, he ground his teeth iu 
secret. That which he would have" given his life, almost his soul 
for, had been thrown away upon one of these two— and to them it 
was as nothing. It did not cloud their looks for more than a min- 
ute, if, indeed, it affected them at all; whereas to him it was every-^ 
thing. They were the butterflies of life; they had it in their power 
to pay pretty compliments, to confer little pleasures, but they were 
not true to death, as he was. And yet Ombra would never find that 
out ; she would never know that his love, which she did not even 
take the trouble to be conscious of, was for life and death, and that 
the other’s was an affair of a moment. They had driven off laugh- 
ing — they had not e7en pretended to be sorry for the loss which the 
place was about to suffer. It was no loss to them. What did thej 
care? They were heartless, miserable, without serise or feeling — 
yet one of them was Ombra’s choice. 

This incident, however, made Mr. Sugden taiie his way back to 
the village. He had walked a great deal further than he had any 
idea of, and had forgotten all about the poor women who were- 
waiting with their subscriptions for the pennj^ club. And it chaled 
him, poor fellow, to have to go into the little dull loom, and to 
take the pennies. “ Good heavens! is this all 1 am good fcr?” he 
said tc himself. “ Is there no small boy or old woman w^ho could 
manage it belter than 1? Was this why the good folks at homo 
'spent so much money on me, and so much patience?” Poor young 
curate, he was tired and out of heart, and he was six feet high, and 
strong as a young lion— yet there seemed nothing in heaven or 
earth for him to do but to keep the accounts of the penny club and 
visit ihe almshouses. He had done that very placidly for a long 
time, having the Cjcttage always to fall back upon, and being a 
kindly, simple soul at bottom— but now! Were there no forests left 
to cut dowm— no East*end lanes within his reach to give some- 
thing to fight with, and help him to recover his life? 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Berties drove away laughing; but when they had got quite 
out of the curate’s sight, Bertie Edridge turned to his cousin with 
indignalicn. 

” How could you be such an ass?” he said. ‘‘You were just 




160 


OMBKA. 


agoing to let out that the yacht was bound for the Mediterranean, 
and ihen, of course, their plans would have been instantly changed. 

“You need not snap me up so sharply,'* said the other; “1 
never said a word about the Mediterranean; and it 1 had, he would 
have taken no notice. What was it to him, one way or another? 
1 see no good in an unnecessary fih.** 

“ What was it to him? How blind you are! Why, it is as much 
to him as it is— Did you never find that out?" 

“ You don't mean to say — *' said the other Bertie, with confu- 
sion. “ But, by Jove, 1 might have known— and that’s how he 
found out! He is not such a slow beggar as he looks. Did you 
hear that about my studies? 1 dare say he said it with a bad mo- 
tive, but he has reason, heaven knows! My poor studies!” 

“Nonsense! Y'ou can’t apply adjectives, my dear fellow, to 
what does not exist” 

“That is all very well for ^mu,” said Bertie Hardwick. “ You 
have no occasion to trouble yourself. You can’t come to much 
harm. But 1 am losing my time, and forming habits 1 ought not 
to form, and disappointing my parents, and all that. You know 
!t, Bertie, and 1 know it, and even such a dull, good-humored slug 
as Sugden sees it. 1 ought not to go wirti you on this trip— that is 
as plain as daylight.” 

“ Stuft!” said the other Bertie. 

“ It is not stuff. He was quite liehl. 1 ought not to go, and 1 
wmn’t!” 

“ Look here,” said the other; “ if you don’t, you’ll be breaking 
faith with me. You know we have always gone halves in every- 
thing all our lives. We are not just like any two other fellows— 
we are not even like brothers. Sometimes 1 think we have but one 
soul between us. Y’ou are pledged to me and 1 to you, tor what- 
ever may happen. If it is harm, we will sharept; and it it is good, 
why — theie is no telling what advantages to you may be involved 
as well. You can not forsake me, Bertie; it would be a treachery 
not only to me, but to the very nature of things.” 

Bertie Hardwick shook his head; a shade of perplexity crossed 
his face. 

“ 1 never was your equal in argument, and ne<^er will be,” he 
said; “ and, besides, you have certain stock principles wdiich floor 
a fellow. But it is no use struggling, 1 suppose it is my fate. And 
a very jolly fate, to tell the truth; though what the people at home 
will say, and all my godfathers and godmothers, who vowed 1 was 
to be honest and industrious, and w^ork for my living—” 


OMBEA. 


101 


1 don’t mucli believe in that noble occupation,” said the other; 

but meantime let us think over what we want at Kyde, which is 
a great deal more impoitant. Going abroad! I wonder it the old 
fellow was thinking of you and me when he signed that sentence, 
lUis the best thing, the very best, that could have happened. 
Everything will be new, and yet there will be the pleasure of 
bringing back old associations and establishing intercourse afresh. 
How lucky it is! Cheer up, Bertie. I feel my heait as light as a 
bird.” 

‘‘ Mine is like a bird that is fluttering just before its fall,” said 
Bertie, with gravity which was half mock and half real, shaking 
his head. 

“ You envy me my good spirits,” said his companion; ” and 1 
suppose there is not very much ground for them. Thank heaven 1 
^on’t offend often in that way. It is more your line than mine. 
But 1 do feel happier about the chief thing of all than 1 have done 
since Easier. Courage, old boy, we’ll win the battle yet.” 

Bertie Hardwick shook his head again. 

‘‘ 1 don’t think 1 shall ever win any battle,” ha said, dolorously; 

“ but,* in the meantime, here’s the lists for fitting out the ‘ Shadow.’ 

1 suspose you think more of that now than of anything else.” 

The other Bertie laughed long and low at his cousin’s mournful 
lone; but thej^ were soon absorbed in the lists, as they bowled ♦ 
along toward Ryde, with a good horse, and a soft breeze blowing 
in their faces. All the seriousness dispersed from Bertie Hard- 
wick’s face as the}^ went on— or rather a far more solemn serioua- 
nesB came over it as he discussed the necessity of this and that, 
and all the requirements of the voyage. Very soon he forgot all 
about the momentary curb that had stepped his imagination in full 
course. ” My studies!” he said, when the business of the day was 
over, with a joyous burst of laughter more unhesitating even than 
his cousin’s. He had surmounted that little shock, and his amuse- 
ment was ^eat at the idea of being reproached with neglect of 
anything so entirely nominal. He had taken his degree, just saving 
It, with no honor, nor much blame either; and now for a w^bole 
year he had been afloat in the world, running hither and thither, as 
it that world were but one enormous field of amusement. He 
ought not to have done so. When he decided to give up the 
Church, he ought, as everybody said, to have uirned bis mind to 
some oilier profession; and great and many were the lamentations 
over his thoughtlessness in the rectory of Langton-Couitenay. But 
somehow the two Berties had always been as one in the minds of 


162 


OMBRA. 


all theii kith and kin; and even the Hardwicks regarded with s: 
vague indulgence the pleasant idleness which was thus shared. Sir 
Herbert Eldridge was rich, and had intluence and patronage, and 
the other Bertie was his only son. It would be no trouble to liim 
to provide “ somehow for his nephew when the light rnonient 
came. And thus, though the father and mother shook their heads^ 
and Mrs. Hardwick would sometimes sigh over the waste of Ber- 
tie’s abilities and his time, yet they had made no very earnest re- 
monstrances up to this moment; and all had gone on nkerrily, and 
all had seemed well. 

That evening, however, as it happened, he received an energetia 
lettei on the subject from his father— a letter pointing out to himi 
the folly of thus wasting his best years. Mr. Hat d wick reminded 
his son that he was thiee-and-lwenty, that he had his wa}’ to make 
in the world, and that it was his duty to make up his mind how hq- 
was going to clc it. 

1 don’t insist upon the church,” he said, “ if your mind is not 
inclined that way — for that is a thing 1 would never force; but 1 
can not see you sink into a state of dependence. Your cousin is 
very kind; but you ought, and you must know it, tc be already in 
the way cf supporting yourself.” 

Bertie wrote an answer to this letter at once that evening, with- 
out waiting to take counsel of the night; perhaps he felt that it was 
safe to do it at once, while the idea of work still looked and felt 
like a gcod joke. This was his reply: — 

“ My dea« Father,—! am very sorry to see that you feel so 
strongly about my idleness. 1 know 1 am an idle wretch, and 
always was; but it can’t last, of course; and alter this bout 1 will 
dc my best to mend. The tact is that for this cruise 1 am pledged 
to Bertie. 1 should be behaving very shabbily to him, after all his 
kindness, if I threw him over at the last moment. Ana, besides, 
we don’t go without an object, neither he nor 1, of wiiicli you will 
hear anon. 1 can not say move now. Give my love to mamma 
and the girls; and don’t be vexed if 1 find there is retime to rim 
home before we start. 1 shall write frem the first port we touch 
at. Home without fail hetoie Christmas. Good-bye. 

A ours affectionately, 

“H. H.” 

Bertie was much pleased with this efiusion; and even wdien he 
read it over in the morning, though it did not appear to strike so 
perfectly the golden line between seriousness and levity as it had 
appeared to do at night, it was still a satisfactory production. And 
it pleased him, in the vanity of his youth, to have made the obscure 


OMBRA. 


1G3 


3"et important suggestion that his voyage was “ not without an ob- 
ject.” What w'ould they all think it they ever found out what 
that object was? He laughed ai the th(>ught, though with a tinge 
of heightened color. The people at heme would suppose that some 
great idea had come to the two— that they were, going on an anti- 
quarian or a scientific expedition; for Bertie Eldridge was a young 
man full of notiens, and had made attempts in both these branches 
of learning. Bertie laughed at this very comical idea; but though 
he was thus satisfied with his own cleverness in bafiling bis natural 
guardians, there was a single drop of shame, a germ of bitterness 
somewhere at the bottom of his heart. He could fence gayly with 
his father, end forget the good advice which came to him from 
those who had a right to give it; but that chance dart thrown dv 
the curate had penetrated a weak point in his armor. Mi. Sugden’s 
suggestion, wdio was a jmung man on his own level, a fellow whom 
he had laughed at, and had no kdty opinion of, clung to him like 
nn obstinate bit of thistledown. It was of no consequence, said 
with an intention to wound— a mere spiteful expression of envy; 
hut it clung to him, and pricked liim vaguely, and made him un- 
comfortable, in spite of himself. 

For Bertie was only thoughtless, not selfish. He was running 
all the risks involved by positive evil in his levity; but he did not 
mean it. Had he known what real trouble was beginning to rise 
In the minds of his ‘‘ people ” in respect to him, and how even his 
uncle Sir Herbert growled at the foolish sacrifice he was making, 
Bertie had manhood enough to have pulled himself up, and aban- 
doned those delights of youth. And indeed a ceitain uneasiness had 
Begun to appear faintly in his own mind — a sense that his life was 
not exactly what it might be, which, of itself, might have roused 
him to better things. But temptation was strong, and life w as 
pleasant; and at twenty-three there still seems so much of it to come, 
and such plenty of time to make amends for all one’s early follies. 
Then there were a hundred specious excuses for him, which even 
harder judges than he acknowledged. F’rom their cradles, his 
cousin Bertie and himself had been as one — they had been born on 
the same day; they had taken every step of their lives together; they 
resembled eacli other as Iwin-biothers sometimes do; and some- 
thing still more subtle, still more fascinating than the bond between 
twin-brothers existed between them. This had'been the admiration 
of their respective families when thej^ w^ere children; anji it was 
with some pride that Lady Eldridge and Mrs. Hardwick had told 
their friends of the curious sympathy between the boys; how when 


164 


OMBKA. 


one was ill, the other was depressed and wretched, though his 
cousin was at a distance from him, and he had no knowledge, ex- 
cept by instinct, of the malady. 

“We know directly when anything is wrong with the other Ber- 
tie,” the respective mothers would say, with that pride which 
mothers feel in any peculiarity of their children. 

This strange tie was strengthened by their education; they went, 
to school together on the same day; they kept side by side all 
through, and though one Bertie might be at the head of the fcrm, 
and the other at the bottom, still in the same form they managed to 
keep, all tutors, masters, and aids to learning promoting, so far as 
in them la}^ the twinship, which everybody found “interesting.” 
And they went to the same college, and day tor day, and side by 
side, took every successive step. Bertie Eldridge was the cleverest; 
it was he who was always at the top; and then he was— a fact 
V. 'Which he much plumed himself upon— the eldest by six hours, and 
accordingly had a right to be the guide and teacher. Thus the very 
threads of their lives were twisted so close together that it was a 
difficult thing to pull them asunder; and though all the older peo- 
ple had come by this time to regret the natural weakness which had 
prompted them to allow this bond to knit itself closer with every 
year of life, none of them had yet hit upon a plan for breaking ih 
The reader will easily perceive what a fatal connection this was for 
the poorer of the two — he who had to make his own way, and had 
no hereditary wealth to fall back upon. For Bertie Eldridge it was 
natural and suitable, and as innocent and pleasant as a life without 
an object can be; but tor Bertie Hardwick it was destruclion. 
However, it was difficult, very difficult, for him to realize this. He 
laughed at his father’s remonstrances, even while he assented to 
them, and allowed that they were perfectly true; yes, everything 
that was said 'was quite true — and yet the life itself was so natural, 
so inevitable. How could he tear himself from it — “ break faith 
with Bertie?” He resolved indefinitely that some time or other it 
wmuld have to be done, and then plunged, with a light heart, into 
the victualing and the preparation of the “ Shadow.” But, never- 
theless, that arrow of* Mr. Sugden’s stuck between the joints of his 
armor. He felt it prick him when he moved; he could not quite 
forget it, do what he would. 


OMBKA. 


165 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The next clay the whole population of the place surged in and 
out of the Cottage, full of regrets and wonders. “ Are you really 
going?'’ the ladies said— so soon? 1 suppose it was quite a sud- 
den idea? And how delightful for you! —but you can’t expect us 
to be pleased. On the contrary, we are all inconsolable. I don’t 
know what we shall do without you. How long do you intend to 
slay away?” 

“ Nothing is settled,” said Mrs. Anderson, blandly. ” AYe are 
leaving ourselves quite tree. 1 think it is much better not to be 
hampered by any fixed time for return.” 

“Oh! much better,” said tlm chorus. “ It is such a bore gen- 
erally; just when one is beginning to know’ people, and to enjoy 
one’s self, one has to pack up and go away ; but there are few people, 
of course, who are so free as you are, dear Mrs. Anderson— you 
have no duty to ca\J you back. And then you know the Continent 
so well, and how to travel, and all ubout it. How I envy you! But 
it will be such a loss for us. 1 don't know what we shall do all the 
summer through without you and dear Ombra and Kate. All our 
picnics and our water- parties, and our croquet, and everything— i 
don’t know what we shall do—” 

“ 1 suppose you will let the cottage for the- summer?” said Mrs. 
Eldridge, who was of a practical mind; “ and 1 hope nice people 
may come. That will be alw’ays some consolation for the rest of 
us; and we can not grudge our friends their holiday, can we?” she 
added, with fine professional feeling, reading a mild lesson to her 
parishioners, to which everybody replied, with a Sutter of protesta- 
tion, Oh! of course not— ol course not.” 

Mr. Courtenay assisted at the little ceremonial. He sat all the 
afternoon in an easy-chair by the window, noting everything with 
a smile. The lea-table was in the opposite corner, and Iroin four 
till six there was little cessation in the talk, and in the distribution 
of cups of tea. He sat and looked on, making vaiious sardonic 
remarks to himself. Partly by chance, and partly by intention, he 
had drawn his chair close to that cf Ombra, who interested him. 
He was anxious to understand this member cf the household, who 
gave Kate no caresses, who did nothing to conciliate or please her, 
but rather spoke sharply to her when she spoke at all. He set this 


166 


OMBEA. 


duwn frankly and openly as jealous}^ and determined to be at the 
bottom of it. Ombra was not a “ locust.” She was much more 
like a secret enemy. He made up his mind that there was some 
mischief between them, and that Ombra hated the^irl whom every- 
body else, from interested motives, pretended to love; therefore, he 
tried to talk to her, first, because her glocm amused him, and sec- 
ond, that he might have a chance of finding something out. 

‘‘ 1 have been under a strange delusion,” he said. ” 1 thought 
there was but a very small population in the Isle o! Wight.” 

” Indeed, 1 don’t know what the numb3r is,” said Ombra. 

” 1 should say it must be legion. The room has been three times 
filled, and still the cry is, they come! And yet 1 understand you 
live very quietly, and this is an out-of-the-way place. Places which 
are in the way must have much more of it. It seems to me that 
May fair is less gay.” 

” 1 don’t know Mayfair.” ^ 

Then you have lived always in the country,” said Mr. Courte- 
nay, blandly. This roused Ombra. She could have borne a graver 
imputation better, but to be considered a mere rustic, a girl who 
knew nothing! 

” On the contrary, i have lived very little irf the country,” she 
said, with a tone ot irritation. ‘‘ But then the towns 1 have lived 
in have belonged to a different kind ot societ}^ than that which, 1 
suppose, you meet with in Mayfair. ] have lived in Madrid, Lis- 
bon, Genoa, and Florence—” 

‘‘Ah! in your fathers time,” said Mr. Courtenay, gently; and 
the sound ot his voice seemed to say to Ombra, ‘‘ In tne consul’s 
time! Yes, to be sure. Just the sort of places he would be sure to 
live in.” Which exasperated her more than she dared show. 

“Yes, that was our ‘happy time!” she cried, hotly. ” The time 
when we were fiee of all interference. My father was honored and 
loved by everybody.” 

‘‘Oh! 1 don’t doubt it— 1 don’t doubt it,” said Mr. Courtenay, 
hurriedly, for she looked very much as if she might be going to 
cry. Spain is very interesting, and so is Italy. It will be pleas- 
ant for you to go back.” 

; ” i don’t think it will,” she said, bluntly. “ Things will be so 
diEerent.” And then, after a pause, she added, with nervous 
haste, ” Kale may like it, perhaps, but not 1.” 

Mr. Courtenay thought it best to pause. He had no wish to be 
made a confidant, or to have Omhra’s grievances against Kate 
poured into his eais. He leaned back in his chair, and watched 


OMBEA. 


167 


with grim amusement, while the visitors went and came. Mr. 
Bugclen had come in while he had been talking, and was now to be 
seen standing like a tail shadow by the other side cf the window, 
looking down upon Ombra; and a nervous expectation had become 
visible in her, which caught Mr. Courtenay’s eye. She did not 
look up when the door opened, but, on the contrary, kept her eyes 
fixed on the work she held in her hand, with a rigidity which be- 
trayed hex more than curiosity would have done. She would not 
look up— but she listened, with a hot, hectic flush on the upper 
part of her cheeks, lust under her drooped eyelids, holding her 
breath, and sitting motionless in the suspense which devoured her. 
The needle shook in her hand, and all the efforts she made to keep 
it steady did but reveal the more the excitement of all her nerves. 
Mr. Courtenay watched her with growing curiosity; he was not 
sympathetic; but it was something new^ to him, and entertainig, 
and be watched as if he had been at a theater. He did not mean to 
be cruel — it was to him like a child’s fit of pouting. It was some- 
thing about love, no doubt, he said to himself. Poor little fool! 
somebody had interfered with her love, her last plaything — perhaps 
Kate, who lookeil very capable of doing mischief in such matters — 
and how unhappy she was making herself about nothing at all! 

At last the anxiety came to a sudden stop; the hand gave one 
jerk more violent than before; the eyes shot out a sudden gleam, 
and then Ombra was suddenly, significantly still. 3Ir. Courtenay 
looked up, and saw that two young men had come into the room, 
so much like each other that he was startled, and did not know 
what (o make of if. As he looked up, with an incipient smile 
on his face, he caught the eye of the tall curate on the other side of 
the window, who was looking at him threateningly. “Good 
heavens! what have 1 done?” said Mr. Courtenay to himself, much 
amazed. “ 1 have not fallen in love with the irresistible Ombra!” 
He was still more entertained when he discovered that the took 
which he had thus intercepted was on its way to the new- comers, 
whom Ombra did not look at, but whose coming had nflected her so 
strangely. Here was an entire drama in the smallest possible 
space. An agitated maiden on the eve of parting with her lover ; 
a second Jealous lover looking on. “ Thank Heaven, it is not 
Kate!” Mr. Courtenay said, from the bottom of his Jieart. The 
sight of this little scene made him feel more and more the danger 
from which he had escaped. He had escaped- it, but only by a 
haii’s-breadth; and, thank the kind fates, was looking on with 
amusement at a story which did not concern him— not with dismay 


168 


OMBEA. 


and consternation at a private embarrassment and difficulty of bis 
own. Ibis sense of a hair-breadth escape gave the little spectacle 
zest. He looked on with genuine amusement, like a true critic, 
delighted with the show of human emotion which was taking place 
before his eyes. 

“ Who are these two young fellows?’' he asked Ombra, deter- 
mined to have the whole advantage of the situation, and draw her 
out to the utmost of his power. 

“ AVhat two?” she said, looking up suddenly, with a dull red 
flush on her cheek, and a choked voice. ” Oh! they are Mr. Hard- 
wick and Mr. Eldridge; two — gentlemen —mamma knows.” 

They were both talking to Kate, standing one on eitlier side of 
her in the middle of the room. Ombra gave them a long, intent 
look, .with the color deepening in her face, and the breath coming 
quick from her lips. She took in the group in every detail, as if 
it had been drawn in lines of fire, flow unconscious Kate looKed 
standing there, talking easily, in all the freedom of her una wakened 
youth. ‘ Heaven be praised!” thought Mr. Courtenay once more, 
pious for the first time in his life. 

“What! not brothers? What a strange likeness, then!” he said, 
tranquilly. ” 1 supppose one of them is young Hardwick, from 
Langton-Courtenay, whom Kate knew at home. He is a parson, 
like his father, 1 suppose?” 

'* Ko,” said Ombra, dropping her eyes once more upon her work. 

“Hot a parson? That is odd, for the elder son, 1 know, has 
gone to the bar. 1 suppose he has relations here? Kate and he 
have met before?” 

“Tes.” 

It was all that Ombra could say; but in her heart she added, 
“ Always Kate— Kate knew him--Kale has met him! Is there no- 
body, then, but Kate in the world to be considered? They think 
so too.” 

The old man, for the first time, had a little pity. He asked no 
more questions, seeing that she was past all power of answering 
them; and half in sympathy, half in curiosity, drew his chair back 

liiile, and left the new-comers room to approach. When they did 
so after some minutes, Ombra's feverish color suddenly forsook 
her cheeks, and she grew very pale. Bertie Eldridge was the first 
to speak. He came up with a little air ot deprecation and humili- 
ty, which Mr. Courtenay, not knowing {heji7i onotof the enigma, 
fiid not understand. 

“ 1 am so sorry tc hear you are going away,” he said.. “ Is it 


OMBKA. 


1G9 


not very sudden. Miss Anderson? You did not speak of it on Wed- 
nesday, 1 think/' 

“Did 1 see you on Wednesday?” said Omhra. “Oh! 1 beg 
your pardon, 1 know you were here; but 1 did not think we hail 
any talk.” 

“ A little, 1 believe,” said the young man, coloring. His self- 
possession seemed to fail him, which was amazing to Mr. Courte- 
nay, for the young men of the period do not often fail in self-pos- 
session. He got contused, spoke low, and faltered something about 
knowing he had no right to be told. 

“ No,” she replied, with nervous color and a flash of sudden 
pride; “ oui of our own little cottage 1 do not know any one wrho 
has a right to be consulted— or cares either,” she added, in an un- 
dertone. 

“ Miss Anderson, you can not think that!'''’ 

“ Ah, but I do!” Then there was a little pause; and after some 
moments, Ombra resumed, “ Kate’s movements are important to 
many people. She will be a great lady, and entitled to have her 
comings and goings recorded in the newspapers; but we have no 
such claim upon the public interest. It does not matter to any 
one, so far as 1 know, whether we go or stay.” 

A silence again, Omhra bent once more over her work, and her 
needle flew through it, working as if for a wager. The other Bertie 
who was behind, had been moving about, in mere idleness, the 
books on Ombia’s writing table At him she suddenly looked up 
with a smile. 

“ Please, Mr. Hardwick! all my poor papers and books which 1 
have just been putting in order— don’t scatter them all over the ta- 
ble again.” 

“ 1 beg your pardon,” he said, looking up. He had borne the 
air of the stage-confidant, till that moment, in Mr. Courtenay’s 
eyes, which w#»re those of a connoisseur in such matters. But now 
his belief on this subject was shaken. When he glanced up and 
saw the look which was exchanged by the two, and the gloom with 
which Mr. Sugden was regarding both, a mist seemed to roll away 
from the scene. How dilfeient the girl’s aspect was now!— soft, 
with a dewy brightriess in her eyes, and a voice that trembled with 
some concealed agitation; and there was a glow upon Bertie’s face, 
which made him handsomer. “ My cousins are breaking their 
hearts over your going,” he said. 

“ Oh, no fear of their hearts,” said Omhra, lightly, “ they will 
mend. If the Cottage is let, the new tenants will probably be gayer 


170 


OMBEA. 


people than we are, and do more to amuse their neighbors. And if 
we come back — ’’ 

“ If!” said the young man. 

‘‘Nothing is certain, 1 suppose, in this world—or, at least, so 
people say.” 

” It is very true,” said Mr. Courtenay. ‘‘It is seldom a young 
lady is so philosophical — but, as you say, if you come back in a 
y^ear, the chances are you will find y^our place filled up, and your 
friends changed.” 

Ombra turned upon him with sparks of fire suddenly flashing 
fiom her eyes. Philosopher, indeed!— say termagant, rather. 

“ it is vile and wretched and horrible to say so!” she cried; ” but 
1 suppose it is true.” 

And all Jhis time the tall curate never took his eyes ofi the 
group, but stood still and listened and watched. Mr. Courtenay 
began to feel very uncomfortable. The scene was deadly real, and 
not as amusing as he had hoped. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

In the little bustle of preparation wlrich ensued, there was, of 
course, a good deal of dress making to do; and Miss Richardson, 
the dress-maker from the village, who was Mr. Sugden’s landlady, 
was almost a resident at the Cottage for the following week. She 
set out every morning in her close black bonnet and black shawl, 
with her little parcel of properties— including the last fashion- 
book, done up in a very tight roll. She helped Maryaune, and she 
helped Francesca, who was more difQcult to deal with; and she 
was helped in her turn by the young ladies themselves, who did 
not disdain the task. It was very pleasant to Miss Richardson, 
who was a person of refined tastes, to find herself in such refined 
society. She was never tired remarking what a pleasure it was to 
talk to ladies who could understand you, and who were not proud, 
and took an interest in their fellow-creatures; and it was during 
this busy week that Kate acquired that absolute knowledge of Miss 
Richardson’s private history with which she enlightened her friends 
at a later period. She sat and sewed and talUd in the little parlor 
which served fcr Kate’s studies, and for many other miscellaneous 
purposes; and it was there, in the midst of all the litter of dress- 
making, that Mrs. Anderson and the girls took their afternoon tea, 
and that even Mrs. Eldiidge and some other intimate friends were 


OMBRA. 


171 - 


occasionally introduced. Mrs. Eldridge knew Miss Richardson in- 
timately, as was natural, and liked to hear from her all that was 
going on in the village; but the dress-maker’s private affairs were 
not of much interest to the rector’s wife — it required a lively and 
universal human interest like Kate’s to enter into such details. 

It was only on the last evening of her labors, however, that Miss 
Richardson made so bold as to volunteer a little private communi- 
cation to Mrs. Anderson. The girls had gone out into the garden, 
after a busy day. All was quiet in the soft April evening; even 
Mr. Sugden had not come that night. They were all alone, feeling 
a little excited by the coming departure, a little wearied with their 
many occupations, a little sad at the thought of leaving the famil- 
iar place. At least, such were Mrs. Anderson’s feelings as she 
stood in the veranda looking out. It was a little more than twi- 
light, and less than night. Ombra was standing in a corner of the 
low garden wall, looking cut upon the sea. Kate was not visible 
— a certain wistfulness, sadness, farewell feeling, seemed about in 
the very air. What may have happened before we come back? 
Mrs. Anderson sighed softly, with this thought in her mind. But 
she was not unhappy. There was enough excitement in the new 
step about to be taken to keep all darker shades of feelings in sus- 
pense. “If 1 might make so bold, ma’am,” said Miss Richard- 
son, suddenly, by her side. ^ 

Mrs. Anderson started, but composed herself immediately. 
“Surely,” she said, with her habitual deference to other people’s 
wishes. The dress-maker coughed, cleared her throat, and made 
two or three inarifculate beginnings. At length she burst forth— 

“ The comfort of speaking to a real lady is, as she don’t mistake 
your meaning, nor bring it up against you after. I’m not one as 
interferes in a general way. I do think, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, as 
I’m well enough known in Shanklin to take upon me to say that. 
But my heart does bleed for my poor young gentleman; and 1 must 
say, even it you should be angry, whatever he is to do,, when you 
and the young ladies go away, is more than 1 can tell. When I 
saw his face this morning, though he’s a clergyman, and as good as 
gold, the thing as came into my head — and 1 give you my word 
for it, ma’am—wasas he’d do himself some harm!” 

“You mean Mr. Sugden? 1 do not understand this at all,” said 
Mrs. Anderson, who had found time to collect herself. “ Why 
should he do himself any harm? You mean he will work too 
much, and make himself ill?” 

“ Ko, ma’am,” said Miss Richardson, with dignity, “1 don’t 


172 


OMBRA. 


apologize for saying it, for you’ve eyes, ma’am, and can see as -well 
as me what’s been a-going on. He’s been here, ma’am, spending 
the evenings, take one week with another, five nights out of the 
seven— and now you and the young ladies is going away. And 
iVliss Om bra— but 1 don’t speak to one as can’t take notice, and see 
how things is going as well as me.” 

“ Miss Richardson, 1 think we all ought to be very careful how 
we talk of a young man, and a clergyman. 1 have been very glad 
to see him here. I have always thought it was good for a young 
man tc have a family circle open to him. But if any gossip has 
got up about the young ladies, it is perfectly without foundation. 
1 should not have expected from you—” 

“Oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am!” cried the dressmaker, carried 
away by her feelings. “ Talk to me cf gossip, when 1 was speak- 
ing as a friend! an ’umble friend, 1 don’t say different, but still 
one that takes a deep interest. Foundation or no foundation, 
ma’am, that poor young gentleman is a-breaking of his heart. 1 
see it before 1 heard the news. 1 said to myself, ‘ Miss Ombra’s 
been and refused him;’ and then 1 heard you and the young ladies 
were going away. Whether he’s spoken, and been refused, or 
whether he haven’t had the courage to speak, it ain’t for me to 
guess; but, oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, speak a word of comfort 
to the poor young gentleman! My heart is in it. 1 can’t stop, 
even if 1 make you angry. I’m not one to gossip, and, when I’m 
trusted, wild horses won’t drag a word cut of me; but 1 make bold 
to speak to you— though you’re a lady, and 1 work tor my bread — 
as one woman to another, ma’am. If you hadff’t been a real lady, 
1 wouldn’t have dared to a-done it. Oh, if you’d but give him a 
word of good advice! such as we can’t have everything we want; 
and there’s a deal of good left, even though Miss Ombra won’t 
bave him; and he oughtn’t to be ungrateful to God, and that. He'd 
take it from you. Oh! ma’am, if you’d give him a word of good 
advice!” 

Miss Richardson wept while she spoke; and at length her emotion 
affected her companion. 

“You are a good soul,” said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her 
hand; “ you are a kind creature. 1 will always think better of you 
for this. But you must not say a word about Miss Ombra. He 
has never spoken to me; and till a man speaks, you know a lady 
has no right to take such a thing for granted. But 1 will not for- 
get what you have said; and 1 will speak to him, if 1 can find an 


OMBKA. 


173 


opportunity — if he will give me the least excuse for doing it. He 
will miss us, I am sure.’' 

“ OhI miss you, ma’am!” cried Miss Kichardsoii; “ all the par- 
iah will miss you and me among the first as you’ve always been so 
good to; but as for my poor young gentleman what I’m afraid of 
is as he’ll do himself some harm!” 

‘‘ Hush! my daughter is coming!” said Mrs. Anderson; and she 
added in a louder tone, ” 1 will see that you have everything you 
want to-morrow; and you must try to give us two days more. 1 
think two days will be enough, Ombia, Muth everybody helping a 
little. Good-night. To-morrow, when you come, you must make 
us all work.” 

‘‘ Thank you very kindly, ma’am,” said the dress-maker, with a 
courtesy; and good-night.” 

” What was she talking to you about, mamma?” said OmbraA 
languid voice, in the soft evening gloom; not that she cared to 
know — the words came mechanically to her lips, 

‘‘About the trimming of your traveling-dress, my dear,” said 
her mother, calmly, with that virtuous composure which accom- 
panies so many gentle fibs. (” And so she was, though not just 
now,” Mrs. Anderson added to herself, in self-exculpation.) 

And then Kate joined them, and they went in-doors and lit the 
lamp. Mr. feugden had been taking a long walk that night. Some 
one was sick at the other end cf the parish, to whom the rector 
had sent him; and he was glad. The invalid was six miles oli, 
and he had walked there and back. But every piece of work, alas! 
comes to an end, and so did this, and he found himself in front of 
the Cottage, he could not tell how, just after this soft domestic light 
began to shine under the veranda, as under an eyelid. He stood 
and looked at it, poor fellow! with a sick and sore heart. A few 
nights more, and that lamp would be lit no longer; and the light 
of his life would be gone out. He stood and looked at it in a rapt- 
ure of love and pain., There was nc one to see him; but if there 
had been a hundred, he would not have known ncr cared, so lost 
was he in this absorbing passion and anguish. He had net tiie 
heart to go in, though the times were so few that he would see her 
again. He went away, with his head bent on his breast, saying to 
himself that if she had been happy he could have borne it; but she 
was not happy ; and he ground his teeth, and cursed the Berties, 
those two buttertiies, these two fools, in his heart. 

There was one, however, svho savv him, and that was Francesca, 


174 


OMBRA. 


who was cutting some salad in the corner of the kitcben-garden, in 
the faint light which preceded the rising of the moon. The old 
woman looked over the wall, and saw him, and was sorry. “ The 
villains!’' she said to herself. But though she was sorry, she 
laughed softly as she went in, as people will, while the world lasts,, 
laugh at such miseries. Francesca was sorry for the young man — 
so sorry even, that she forgot that he was a priest, and, therefore, a 
terrible sinner in thinking such thoughts; but she was not dis- 
pleased with Ombra this time. This was natural. “ What is the 
good of being young and beautiful if one has not a few victims?” 
she said to herself. '* I'ime passes fast enough, and then it is all 
over, and the man has it his own way. If nostra Ombra did not 
more harm than that!” And, on the whole, Francesca went in with 
the salad for her ladies' supper rather exhilarated than othe rwise, 
by the sight of the hopeless lover. It was the woman's revenge 
upon man for a great deal that he makes her sufter; and in the ab 
stract women are seldom sorry for such iiatural victims. 

Next evening, however, Mr. Sugden took heart, and went to the 
cottage, and there spent a few hours of very sweet wretchedness, 
Ombra being unusually good to him— and to the curate she always^ 
was good. After the simple supper had been eaten and Fran- 
cesca's salad, Mrs. Anderson contrived that both the girls should 
be called away to try on their traveling-dresses, at which Miss 
Richardson and Maryanne were working with passion. The win- 
dow was open; the night w^as warm, and the moon had risen over 
the sea. Mrs, Anderson stepped out upon the veranda with the 
curate, and they exchanged a few sentences on the beauty of the 
night, such as w^ere consistent with the occasion; then she broke off 
the unreal, and took up the true. ” Mr. Sugden,” she said, ” I 
wanted to speak to you. It seems vain to take such a thing for 
granted, but 1 am afraid you will miss us when we go away.” 

” Jf^ssyou!” he cried; and then tears came into the poor tellow'.s 
eyes, and into his voice, and he took her hand with despairing 
gratitude. ” Thanks for giving me a chance to speak,” he said— 
‘‘it is like yourself. Miss you! 1 feel as if life w’ould cease 
altogether after Monday— it won’t, 1 suppose, and most things will 
go on as usual: ^but 1 can not think it— everything will be over 
for me.” 

” You must not think so,” she said; ” it will be hard upon you 
at first, but you will find things will arrange themselves better 
than you expect — other habits will come in instead of this. No, 
iudeed, 1 am not unkind, but 1 know life better than you do. But 


OMBRA. 


175 


lor that, you know, we could not go on living, with all the changes 
that happen to us. We should be killed at the first blow.*’ 

'‘And so 1 shall be killed,” he said, turning from her with 
heavier gloom than before, and angry with the consolation. “ Oh! 
not bodily, 1 suppose. One can go on and do one’s work all the 
same; and one good thing is, it will be of importance to nobody but 
myself.” 

‘‘Don’t say so,” said kind Mrs. Anderson, with. tears in her 
<eye3. “ Oh! my dear boy— if you will let me call you so— think 
what your visionary loss is in comparison with so many losses that 
people have to bear every day.” 

“ It is no visionary loss to me,” he said bitterly. ” But if she 
were happy, 1 should not mind. 1 could bear it, if atl were well 
with her. 1 hope 1 am not such a wretch as to think of myself in 
comparison. Don’t think 1 am too stupid to see how kind you 
are to me; but there is one thing — only one that could give me real 
comfoit. Promise that, if the circumstances are ever such as to 
call for a brother’s interference, .you will send for me. It is nut 
what 1 would have wished, God knows— not what 1 would have 
wished— but 1 will be a brother to her, if she needs a brother. 
Piomise. There are seme things which a man can do best, and if 
she is wronged, if her brother could set things right—” 

” Dear Mr. Sugden, 1 don’t understand you,” said Mrs. Ander- 
son, faltering. 

‘‘ But you will, if such a time should come? You will remember 
that you have promised. 1 will say goodnight now. 1 can’t go 
in again after this and see her without making a fool cf myself, 
snd it is best she should keep some confidence in ijre. Good- 
night.’*’ 

Had she fulfilled Miss Richardson’s commission?— or had she 
pledge il herself to appeal to him instead, in some incomprehensible 
contingency? Mrs. Anderson looked after him bewildered, and did 
not know. 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

Sunday was their last evening at Shanklin, and they were all 
rather melancholy— even Kate, who had been to church Ihree times, 
and to the Sunday-school, and over the almshouses, and had filled 
up the interstices between these occupations by a succession of tear- 
ful rambles round the rectory garden with Lucy Eldridge, whose 
tears flowed at the smallest provocation. ” 1 will remember every- 


176 


OMBKA. 


thing you have told me,” Lucy protested. ” I will go to thC'Old 
women every week, and lake them their tea and sugar — for ohf 
Kate, you know papa does not approve of money— and 1 will see 
that the little Joliftes are kept at school— and 1 will go every week 
to see after your flowers; but oh! what shall 1 do without you? I 
sha’n’t care about my studies, or anything; and those duets which 
we used to play together, and our German, which we always meant 
to take up— 1 shall not have any heart for them now. Oh! Kale, 
1 wish you were not going! But that is selfish. Ot course I want 
you to have the pleasure; only — ” 

‘‘ 1 wish you were going,” said Kate—” 1 wish everybody was 
coming; but as that is impossible, we must just make the best of 
it; and if anybody should take the Cottage, and you should go 
and make as great friends with them as you ever did with me—” 

” How can you think so?” said Lucy, with fresh tears. 

” Well,” said Kate, ” if 1 were very good, 1 suppose 1 ought to 
hope 3^ou w’ould make friends with them; but 1 am not so fright- 
ened of being selfish as you are. One must be a little selfish— but 
for that people would have no character at all.” 

” Ohl Kate, it mamma were to hear you — ” 

” 1 should not mind. . Mrs. Kldiidge knows as well as 1 do. 
Giving in to other people is all very well ; but if you have not the 
heart or the courage to keep something of your very own, which 
you won’t give away, what is the good of you? 1 don’t approve 
of sacrificing like that.” 

“lam sure you w^ould sacrifice yourself, though you speak so,”^ 
said Lucy. “Oh! Kate, you would sacrifice anything — even a — 
person— yoq, loved — if some one else loved him.” 

” 1 should do nothing of the sort,” said Kate, stoutly. ” In the 
first place, you mean a man, 1 suppose, and it is only women who 
are* called persons. 1 should do nothing of the sort. Whai right 
should 1 have to sacrifice him if he were fond of me, and hand 
him over to some one else? That is not selt-saciifice— it is the 
height of impertinence; and if he were not fond of me, ot course 
there would be nothing in my power. Oh, no, 1 am not that sort 
of person. 1 will never give up any one’s love or any one’s friend- 
ship to give it to another. ISlotv, Lucy^ remember that. And if 
you are as great friends wilh the new people as yen are with me— 

” What odd ideas you have!” said Lucy. ” 1 suppose it is be- 
cause you are so independent and a great lady; and it seems natural 
that everybody should yield to you.” 

Upon which Kate flushed crimson. 


OMBKA. 


177 


^ “ How mean you must think me! To stand up for my own way 
Because I shall be rich But never mind, Lucy. 1 don’t suppose 
y6u can understand, and 1 am fond of you all the same. 1 am 
fond of you notoy but it you go acd forget me, and go off. after 
other people, you don’t know how diflerent I can be. 1 shall hate 
you— 1 shall—” 

“Oh! Kate, don’t be so dreadful!” cried Lucy. “ What would 
mamma say?” 

“ Then don’t provoke me,” said Kate. And then they tell back 
upon more peaceful details, and the hundred commissions which 
Lucy undertook so eagerly. 1 am not sure that Kate was quite 
certain of the sincerity of her self-sacrihcing friend. IShe made a 
great many wise reflections on the subject when she had left her^ 
and settled it with a philosophy unusual to her years. 

“ She does not mean to be insincere,” Kate mused to herself. 
“ She does not understand. If there is nothing deeper in it, how 
can she help it? AVhen the new people come, she will be quite sure, 
she will not care for them; and then they will call, and she will 
change her mind. 1 suppose 1 will change my mind too. How 
queei people are! But, at all events, 1 don’t pretend to be better 
than 1 am.” And with a little premonitory smart, feeling that her 
friend was alieady, in imagination, unfaithful, Kate walked home, 
looking tenderly at everything. 

“Oh! how lovely the sea is!” she said to herself— “ how blue, 
and gray, and green, and all sorts of colors! 1 hope it will not be 
louirh when we cross to-morrow. 1 wonder if the voyage from 
Southampton will be disagreeable, and how Ombra will stand it. 
Is Ombra really ill now, or is it only her mind? Of course she can 
net turn rcund to my aunt and say it is her mind, or that the Berties 
had anything to do with it. 1 wonder 'what really happened that 
night; and 1 wonder which it is. She can not be in love with them 
both at once, and they can not be. both in love with her, or they 
would not be such friends. 1 wondei — but, there, lam doing noth- 
ing but wondering, and there are so* many things that are queer. 
Hew beautiful that white headland is with a little light about it, 
as if the day bad forgotten to carry all that belonged to it awmy! 
And perhaps 1 may never see it my more. Perhaps 1 may never 
come back to the Cottage, or the cliffs, or the sea. 'VVhat a long 
time 1 have been here — and what a horrid, disagreeable girl 1 was! 
1 think 1 must be a little better now. I am not so impertinent, at 
all events, though 1 do like^to meddle. 1 suppose 1 shall always 
like to meddle. Oh, 1 wondei how 1 shall feel when 1 go back 


178 


OMBEA. 


again lo Langton-Courtenay? 1 am' eighteen and in three 
_y^*ars 1 shall be able tc do whatever 1 like. Lucy said a great lady 
— a great lady! 1 think, on the whole, 1 like the idea. It is so 
different from most other people. 1 shall not require to marry 
unless 1 please, or to do anything that is disagreeable. And it 1 
don't set the parish to rights! The poor folk shall be all as happy 
as the day is long,” cried Kate to herself, with energy. “They shall 
have each a nice garden, and a bit of potato-ground, and grass tor 
a cow. And what it 1 were to buy a quantity of those nice little 
Brittany cows w^hen we are abroad? Aunty thinks they are the 
best. How comfortable everybody will be with a cow and a gar- 
den! But, oh, dear! w’hat a long time it will be first; and 1 don’t 
know if 1 shall ever see this dear cottage, and the bay, and the 
headland, and all the cliffs and the landslips, and the ups and the 
downs again." 

“ Mees Katta, you vill catzh ze cold,” said Franceica, coming 
briskly up to her. “ It is not so beautiful this road, that jxu should 
take the long looks, and have the air so dull. Sorry, no, she is not 
sorry — my young lady is not sorry to go to see Italy, and ze mount- 
ains and ze world—” 

“Not quite that, Francesca,” said Kate; “but 1 have been so 
happy at the Cottage, and 1 was thinking what it 1 should never 
see it again!” 

“ That is what you call non-sense,” said Francesca. “Why 
should not mademoiselle, who is verra young, comm back and zee 
all she lofs? It it was an old, like me — but 1 think nothink, 
nothink ot ze kind, for 1 always comms back, like what you call 
ze bad penny. This is pretty, but were you once to see llaly, 
Mees Kalta, you never would think no more of this— never no 
more!” 

“ Indeed, 1 should!” cried Kate, indignantly; “ and it this was 
the ugliest place in England, and your Italy as beautiful as heaven, 

1 should still like this best.” 

Francesca laughed, and shook her little brown bead. 

“ Wait till my young lady see,” she said— “ wait till she see. 
The air is never damp like this, but sweet as heaven, as Mees Katta 
says; and the sea blue, all blue; you never see nozrng like it. It 
makes you well, you English, only to see Italy. What does made- 
moiselle say?” 

“ Oh! do you think the change of air will cure Ombra? ’ cried 
Kate. 

“ No,” said Francesco, turning round upon her, “ not the change 


OMBRA. 


179 


of aif, but the change of mind, will cure Mees Ombra. Whal she 
wants is Ibe change of mind.” 

” 1 do not understand you,” said Kate. ” 1 suppose you mean 
the change of scene, the novelty, the — ” 

” 1 mean the change of ze mind,” said Francesca; ‘‘ when she 
will understand herself, and the ozer people’s; when she knows to 
do right, and puts away her face of stone, then she will be w^ell — 
quite well. It is not sickness; it is her mind that makes ill, Mees 
Kalta. When she will put ze ice away and be true, then she shall 
be well.” 

” Oh, Francesca, you talk like an old witch, and 1 am frightened 
for you!” cried Kale. ‘‘ 1 don’t believe in illness of the mind; you 
will see Ombra will get better as soon as we begin to move about.” 

” As soon as she change her mind she will be better,” said the 
oracular Fiancesca. ‘‘ There is nobody that tells her the tiutt but 
me. She is my child, and 1 lof her, and 1 tell her the trutl.” 

” I think 1 see my aunt in the garden,” said Kate, hurrying on,*; 
for though she was very curious, she was honorable, and did not 
wish to discover her cousin’s secrets through Francesca’s revela- 
tions. 

” If your aunt kill me, 1 care not,” said Francesca, ” but my 
lady is the most good, the most sense— She knows Mees Ombra, 
and she lets me talk. She is cured when she will change the 
mind.” 

” 1 don’t want to hear any more, please, ’ said honorable Kate. 
But Fiancesca went on nodding lK‘r head, and repeating her senti- 
ment; ‘‘ When she change the mind she will be well,” till it got to> 
honest Kate’s ears, and mixed with her dreams. The mother and 
daughter were in the garden, talking not loo cheerfully. A certain 
sadness was in the air. The lamp burned, dimly in the drawing- 
room, throwing a faint, desolate light over the emptiness. ” This 
is what it will look like to-morrow,” said Kate; and she cried. 
And the others were very much disposed to follow her example. 
It was the last night — words which are always melancholy; and 
presently poor Mr. ISugden stole up in the darkness, and joined 
them, with a countenance of such despair that poor Kate, excited^ 
and tired, and dismal as she herself felt, had hard ado to keep from 
laughing. The new-comer adiied no cheer to the little party. He 
was dismal as Don Quixote, and, poor fellow, as simple-minded 
and as true. 

And next morning they went a Way. Mr. Courtenay himself, who- 
had lingered in the neighborhood, paying a visit to some friends^ 


ISO 


OMBKA. 


either from excess of kindness, or determination to see the last of 
them, met them at Sonlliampton, and put them into the boat for 
Havre, the neaiest French port. Kate had her Maryanne, who, con- 
founded by the idea ot foreign travel, was already helpless; and 
the two other ladies were attended by old Francesca, as brisk and 
busy a‘s- a little brown bee, who was ot use to everybody, and knew 
all about luggage and steam- boats. Mr. Sugden, who had begged 
that privilege from Mrs. Anderson, went with them so far, and 
pointed out the ships of the fleet as they passed, and took them 
about the town, indicating all its principal wonders to them, as if 
he were reading his own or their death-warrants^ 

“11 it goes on much longer 1 shall laugh,” whispered Kate, in 
her aunt's ear. 

“ It would be very cruel of you,” said that kind woman. But 
even her composure was tried. And in the evening they sailed, 
with all the suppressed excitement natural to the circumstances. 

“ You have the very best time of the year for your start,” said 
Mr. Courtenay, as he shook hands with them. 

“And, thanks to you,'^very comfort in traveling,” said Mrs. 
Auderson. 

Thus they parted, with mutual compliments. Mr. Sugden wrung 
lier hand, and whispered hoarsely, “ Remember — like her brother!” 
He stalked like a ghost on shore. His face was the last they saw 
when the steam-boat moved, as he stood in the gray of the evening, 
gray as the evening, looking after them as long as they were visi- 
ble. The sight ot him made the little party very silent. They 
made no explanation to each other; but Kate had no longer any 
incbnation to laugh. “ Like a brother I—like her brother!” These 
words, the curate, left to himself, said over and over in his heart 
as he walked back and forward on the pier for hours, watching the 
way they had gone. The same soft evening bieeze which helped 
them on, blew about him, but refreshed him not. The object of 
his life was gone. 

CHAPTER XXXlll. 

The little party traveled as it is in the nature of the British 
tourist to travel t\^hen he is fairly started, developing suddenly a 
perfect passion for sight-seeing, and for long and ivearisome jour- 
neys. Mrs. Andeison, though she was old enough and experienced 
enough to have known better, took the plunge with the tiuest 
national enthusiasm. Even when they paused in Paris, which she 


OMBRA. 


181 


knew as well as, or better than anything in her own country, she 
still felt herself a tourist, and went conscientiously over again and 
flaw the sights— tor Kate, she said, but also for herself. Then rushed 
across France with the speed of an express train, and made a dash 
at Switzerland, though it was so early in the year. They had it 
almost all to* themselves, the routes being scarcely open, and the 
great rush of travelers not yet begun; and who, that does not know 
it, can fancy how beautiful it is among the mountains in May! 
Kate was carried entirely out of herself by what she saw. The 
spring green brightening and enhancing those rugged heights, and 
dazzling peaks of snow; the sky of an ethereal blue, all dewy and 
radiant, and surprised into early splendor, like the blue eyes of a 
child; the paths sweet with flowers, the streams full with the melt- 
ing snow, the sense of awakening and resurrection all over the 
land. Kate had not dieamea of anything so splendid and so beau- 
tifiil. The weather was much hner than is usual so early in the 
year, and of course the travelers took it not for an exceptional 
season, as they ought, but gave the fact that they were abroad 
credit for every shining day. Abroad! Kate had felt for years 
(she said all her life) that in that word “ abroad every delight 
was included; and now she believed herself. The novelty and 
movement by themselves would have done a great deal; and the 
wonderful beauty of this virgin country, which looked as if nc 
crowd of tourists had ever profaned it, as if it had kept its stillness, 
its stateliness, and grandeur, and dazzing light and majestic glooms, 
all for their enjoyment, elevated her into a paradise of inward de- 
light. Even Maryanne was moved, though chiefly by her mistress’s 
many and oft-repeated efi;orts to rouse her. When Kate had ex- 
hausted everybody else, she rushed upon her handmaid. 

“ Oh! Maryanne, lock! Did you ever see— did you ever dream 
of anything so beautiful?” 

” No, miss,” said Maryanne. 

‘‘ Lock at that stream rushing down the ravine. It is the melted 
snow. And look at all those peaks above. Pure snow, as daz- 
zling as-'-as — ” 

” They looks for all the world like the sugar on a bride-cake, 
miss,” said Maryanne. 

At which Kate laughed, but went on— 

‘‘ Those cottages are called chalets, up there among the clouds. 
Look how green the grass is— like velvet. Oh I Maryanne, shouldn’t 
you like to live there— to milk the cows in the evening, and have 


182 


OMBKA. 


the mountains all round you— nothing but snow-neaks, wherever 
you turned your eyes?’* 

JVlaryanne gave a shudder. 

“ Why, miss,’* she said. “ you’d catch your death of cold!” 

Wait till Mees Katta see my lella Firenze,'’' said old Francesca. 

” There is the snow quite near enough— quite near enough. You 
zee him on the tops of ze hills/’ 

“ i never, never shall be able to live in a town. 1 hale towns,’^ 
said Kate. 1 

“ xVh!” cried the old woman, “ my young lady will not always [ 
think so. This is pleasant now; but there is no balls, no parties, 
no croquee on ze mountains! Mees Katta shakes her head; but 
then the winter will come, and, oh! how beautiful is Firenze, with 
all the palaces, and ze people, and processions that pass and all 
that is gay. 'Ihere will be the opera,” said Francesca, counting on 
her fingers, “ and the Cascine. and the Carnival, and the Yeg^oni, 
and the grand corso with the flowers. Ah! 1 have seen many 
young Kngiish mees, 1 know.” 

”1 never could have supposed Francesca would be so stupid,’^ 
cried Kate, returning to the party on the quarter-deck— for this 
conversation took place in a steamer cn the Lake of Lucerne. 

” !:3he does not care for the mountains as much as Maryanne does, 
even. Maryanne thinks the snow is like sugar on a bride-cake,”' 
she went on, with a laugh; ” but Francesca does nothing but rave 
about Florence, and balls, and operas. As if 1 cared for such 
things— and as if we were going there!” 

” But Francesca is quite right, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, with 
hesitation. ” When the summer is over, we shall want to settle 
down again, and see our fellow- creatures; and really, as Francesca 
has suggested it, we might do a great deal worse. Florence is a 
very nice place.’' 

” In winter, auntie? Are not we going home?” 

” My dear, 1 know your uncle would wish you to see as much as 
possible before returning home,” said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, 
and with considerable confusion. ‘‘ 1 confess 1 had begun to think 
that— a lew months in Italy— as we are here—” 

Knte was taken by surprise. She did not quit knew whether she 
was delighted or dicappointed by the idea; but before she could re- 
ply, she met the eye of her cousin, whose whole face had kindled 
into passion. Ombra sprung to her feei, and drew Kale aside with 
a nervous haste that startled her. She grasped her ami tight, and 
whispered in her ear, ‘‘We are to be kept till you are ot ai?e— I see 


OMBKA. 


183 


it all now— we are prisoners, till you are of age. Oh! Kate, will 
you bear it? You can resist, but 1 can’t— they w^ill listen to you.” 

It is impossible to describe the shock which was given to Kate’s 
loyalty by this speech. It was the first actual suggestion of rebell- 
ion which had been made to her, and it jarred her every nerve. 
She had not been a submissive child, but she had never plotted— 
never done anything in secret. She said aloud, in painful wonder — 

‘‘ Why should we be prisoners?— and what has my coming of 
■age to do with it?” turning round, and lookiug bewildered into 
her cousin’s face. 

Ombra made no reply; she went back to her seat, and retired into 
herself for the rest of the day. Things had gone smoothly since the 
journey began up to this moment. She had almost ceased to brood, 
and had begun to take some natural interest in what was going on 
about liei. But now all at once the gloom returned. She sat with 
her eyes fixed on the shore of the lake, and with the old flush of 
leverish red, half wretchedness, half anger, under her eyes. Kate, 
who had grown happy in the brightening of the domestic atmos- 
phere, was aftected by this change in spite of herself. She ex- 
changed mournful looks with her aunt. The beautiful lake and 
the sunny peaks were immediately clouded over; she was doubly 
checked in the midst of her frank enjoyment. 

” Tou are wrong, Ombra,” said Mrs. Anderson, after along 
pause. ” 1 don’t know what you have said to Kate, but 1 am sure 
you have taken up a false idea. There is no compulsion. We are 
to go only when we please, and to stay only as long as we like.” 

” But we are not to return home this year?” 

”1 did not say so; but 1 think, perhaps, on the whole, that to go 
a little further, and see a little more, would be best both tor you 
and Kate.” 

“ Exactly,” said Ombra, with bitterness, nodding her head in a 
derisive assent. 

Rate looked on with wistful and startled eyes. It was almost the 
first time that the idea of real dissension between these two had 
crossed her mind; and still more this infinitely startling doubt 
whether all that was said to her was true. At least there had been 
concealment; and was it reall}^ truly the good of Ombra and Kate, 
or some private arrangement with Uncle Courtenay, that was in 
her aunt’s mind? This suggestion came suddenly into her very 
heart, wounding her as with an ariow; and from that day, though 
sometimes lessening and sometimes deepening, the cloud upon 
Ombra’s face came back. But as she grew less amiable, she grew 


184 


OMBRA. 


more po;\"errul. Henceforward the party became guided by her 
wayward fancies. She took a sudden liking for one of the quietest 
secluded places— a village on the little blue lake of Zug— and there 
they settled for some time, without rhyme or leason. Green slopes, 
with gi ay stone peaks above, and glimpses of snow beyond, shut in 
this lake-valley. 1 agree with Ombra that it is very sweet in its 
stillness, the lake so blue, the air so clear, and the noble, nut-bear- 
ing trees so umbrageous, shadowing the pleasant chalets. In the 
center a little whitewashed village church among its graves, its 
altar all decked with stately May lilies, the flowers of the Annun- 
ciation. The church had no beauty of architecture, no fine pictures 
—not even great antiquity to recommend it; but Ombra was fond 
of the sunshiny, still place. She would go there when she was 
tired, and sit down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, and some- 
times was to be seen kneeling furtively on the white altar steps. 

Kate, who roamed up and down everywhere, and had soon afl 
the faculty cf a young mountaineer, would stop at the open church* 
door as she came down from the hills, alpenstock in hand, sunv 
burned and agile as a young Diana. 

“ You are not going to turn a Roman Catholic, Ombra?” she 
said. “ 1 think it would make my aunt very unhappy.” 

“ 1 am not going to turn anything,” said Ombra. ‘‘ 1 shall 
never be diflerent from what 1 am — never any better. One tries 
and tries, and it is no good.” 

” Then stop trying, and come up on the hills and shake it off,'’' 
said Kate. 

” Perhaps I might if 1 were like you; but I am not like you.” 

” Or let us go on, and see people and do things again— do all 
sorts of things. 1 like this little lake,” said Kate. ” One has a 
home-feeling. 1 almost think I should begin to poke about the 
cottages, and find fault with the people, if we were to stay long. 
But that is not your temptation, Ombra. Why do you like to stay?”' 

” 1 stay because it is so still— because nobody comes here, noth- 
ing can happen here; it must always be the same for ever and for 
ever and ever!” cried Ombra. ” The hills and the deepwater, and 
the lilies in the church— which are artificial, you know, and can 
not fade.” 

Kate aid not understand this little bitter gibe at the end of her 
cousin’s speech: but was overwhelmed with surprise when Ombra 
next morning suggested that they should resume their journey. 
They were losing their time where thejr were, she said; and as, if 
they were to go to Italy for the winter, it would be necessary to re- 


OMBEA. 


185 


turn by Switzerlana next year, she proposed to strike off from the 
mountains at this spot, to go to German}", to the strange old histor- 
ical cities that were within reach. “ Kate should see JSl uremberg, ’ ' 
49he said, and Kale, to her amazement, found the whole matter set- 
tled, and the packing commenced that day. Umbra managed the 
whole journey, and was a practical person, handy and rational, 
until they came to that old-wcrtd place; where she became remuse 
and melancholy once more. 

“ Do ycu like this better than Switzerland?” Kate asked, as 
they looKed down from their windows along the three-hundred- 
yeai'-old street, where it was so strange to see people walking about 
in ordinary dresses and not in Irunkhose and velvet mantles. 

“ 1 don’t care for any place. 1 have seen so many, and one is so 
much like another,’’ said Umbra. ” Hut look, Kate, there is one 
advantage. Anything might happen here; any one might be com- 
ing along those streets, and you would never feel surprised. If 1 
were to see my father walking quietl}" this way, ] should uot think 
it at all strange.” 

‘‘ But, Umbra— he is dead!” said Kate, shrinking a little, with 
natural uneasiness. 

“ Yes, he is dead; but that does not matter. Hook down that 
hazy street with all the gables. Any one might be coming— people 
whom w"e have forgotten- even,” she said, pressing Kate’s arm, 
” people who have forgotten us.” 

Uh! Umbra, how strangely you speak! People that care for 
you don’t forget you,” cried Kate. 

” That does not mend the matter,” said Umbra, apd withdrew 
hurriedly from the window. 

Poor Kate tried very hard to make something out of it, but could 
not; and therefore she shrugged her shoulders and gave her head 
a little shake, and went to her German, which she was working at 
fitfully to make the best of her opportunities. The German, though 
she thought sometimes it would break her heart, was not so hard 
as Umbra; and even the study of languages had Ic her something 
amusing in it. 

Une of the young waiters in the hotel kept a dictionary in the stair- 
case window, and studied it as he flew up and down stairs for a new 
won! to experiment with upon the young ladies; and another had. 
by means of the same dictionary, set up a flirtation with Maryanue; 
so fun was still possible, notwithstanding all; and whether it was 
by the mountain paths, or in those hazy strange old streets, Kate 
walked with her head, as it were, in the clouds, in a soft rapture of 


186 


OMBKA. 


delight and pleasantness, taking in all that was sweet and lovely 
and good, and letting the rest drop off from her like a shower of 
rain. She even ceased to think of Ombra’s odd ways— not out of 
want of consideration, but with the facility which youth has for 
taking everything for granted, and consenting to whatever is. It 
was a great pity, but it could not be helped, and one must make 
the best of it all the same. 

And thus the summer passed on, full of w^onders and delighls. 
Mrs. Anderson Jind her daughter, and even Francesca, were inval- 
uable to the ignorant girl. They knew how everything had to be 
done: they were acquainted alike with picture-galleries and rail- 
way-tickets, and knew even what to say about every work of art, 
an accomplishment deeply amazing to Kate, who did not know 
what to say about anything, and who had several times committed 
herself by praising vehemently some daub, which was beyond the 
reach of praise. When she made such a mistake as this, her morti- 
fication and shame were great; but unfortunately her pride made 
her hold by her opinion. They saw so many pictures, so many 
chirrches, so much that was picturesque and beautiful, that her 
brain was in a maze, and her intellect had become speechless. 

They took their way across the mountains in autumn, getting en- 
tangled in the vast common tide of travelers to Italy; and, after 
all, Francesca’s words came true, and it was a relief to Kate to get 
back into the stream — it relieved the strain upon her mind. In- 
stead of thinking of more and lovelier pictures still, she was pleased 
to rest and see nothing; and even — a confession which she was 
ashamed to make to herself — Kate was as much delighted with the 
prospect of mundane pleasures as she had been with the scenery. 
Society bad acquired a new charm. She had never been at an}^- 
thing more than “ a little dance,” or a country concert, and balls 
and operas held out their arms to her. One of the few diplomatic 
friends whom Mrs, Anderson had made in her consular career was 
at Florence; and even Mr. Courtenay could not object to his niece’s 
receiving the hospitalities of the embassy. She was to ” come out ” 
at the embassador’s ball— not in her full-blown glory, as an heiress 
and a great lady, but as Mrs Anderson’s niece, a pretty, young, un- 
distinguished English girl. Kate knew nothing about this, nor 
cared. She threw herself into the new joys as she had done into 
the old. A new chapter, however it might begin, was alsvays a. 
pleasant thing in her fresh and genial life. 


OMBRA. 


187 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Flokence altogether was tull ot pleasant novelty to the young 
traveler. To find herself living up two pairs of stairs, with win- 
dows overlooking the Arno, and at a little distance the quaint build- 
ings of the Ponte Vecchio, was as great a change as the first change 
had been from Langton-Courtenay to the little cottage at.Shanklin. 
JMrs. Anderson’s apartment on the second floor of the Casa Giazi 
ana was not large. There was a drawing-rootn which looked to 
the front, and received all the sunshine which Florentine skies could 
give; and halt a mile oft. at the other end of the house, there was 
a grim and spare dining-room, furnished with the indispensable 
tables and chairs, and with a curious little fire-place in the corner, 
raised upon a slab of stone, as on a pedestal. It would be difficult 
to tell hotv cold it was here as the winter advanced; but in the sa~ 
Ion il was genial as summer whenever the sun shone. The family 
went, as it were, from Nice to Inverness when they went from the 
front to the back, tor their meals. Perhaps it might have been in- 
appropriate for Miss Courtenay ot Langton-Courtenay to live up 
two pairs of stairs; but it was not at all unsuitable tor Mrs. Ander- 
son; and, indeed, when Lady Barker, who was Mrs. Anderson’s 
friend, came to call, she was much surprised by the superior char- 
acter of the establishment. Lady Barker had been a consul’s daugh- 
ter, and had risen immensely in life by marrying the foolish young 
attache, whom she now kept in the way he ought to go. She was 
not the embassadress, but the embassadress’s friend, and a member 
of the Legation; and though she was now in a manner a great lady 
herself, she remembered quite well what were the means of the An- 
dersens, and knew that even the terzo inano of a house on the Lung- 
Arno was more than they could have ventured on in the ancient 
days. 

“What a pretty apartment,” she said; “and how nicely sitm 
ated! 1 am afraid you will find it rather dear. Florence is so 
changed since your time. Do you remember how cheap everything 
used to be in the old days? Well, it you will believe me, you pay 
just fifteen times as much for every article now.” 

“ So 1 perceive,” said Mrs. Anderson. “ We give a thousand 
francs for these rooms, which ought not to be more than a hundred 
scud;— and without even the old attraction of a pleasant accessible 
court. ” 


188 


OMBRA. 


Lady Bar^ef opened her eyes — at once, at the fact of Idrs. Ander- 
son paying a thousand francs a month for her rooms, and at her 
familiar mention of the pleasant court. 

“ Oh, there are some very pleasant people here now,’' she said; 
“ if your young ladies are fond of dancing, 1 think 1 can help them 
to some amusement. Lady Granton will send you cards for her 
hall. Is Orabra delicate? — do you still call her Ombra? How odd 
it is that you and 1, under such different circumstances, should 
meet here!” 

“ Aes — very odd,” said Mrs. Anderson; “ and yet 1 don’t know. 
People who have been once in Italy always come back. There is 
a charm about it—” 

Ah, we didn’t think so once,” said Lady Barker, with a laugh. 
She could remembei the time when the Andersons, like so many 
other people compelled to live abroad, looked upon everything that 
was not English with absolute enmity. ” You used tc think Italy 
did not agree with your daughter,” she said; ‘‘ have you brought 
her for her health now?” 

”.Oh, no, Ombra is quite well; she is always pale,” said Mrs. 
Anderson. “We have come rather on account of my niece — not: 
for her health, but because she had never seen anything out of her 
own country. We think it right that she should make good use 
of her time before she comes of age.” 

“ Oh, will she come of age?” said Lady Barker, with a glance 
of laughing curiosity. She decided that the pretty girl at the win- 
dow, who had two or three times broken into the conversation, 
was a great deal too pretty tc be largely endowed by fortune; and 
smiled at her old friend’s grandiloquence, which she remembered 
so well. She made a very good story of it at the little cozy dinner- 
party at the embassy that evening, and prepared^ the good people 
for some amusement. ” A pretty English country girl, with some 
property, no doubt,” she said. ” A cottage orn^, most likely, and 
some fields about it; but her aunt talks as if she were heiress to a 
grand duke. She has come abroad to improve her mind before she 
comes of age.” 

‘‘ And when she goes back there will be a grand assemblage of 
the tenantry, no doubt, and triumphal arches, and all the rest of 
it,” said another of the fine people. 

” So Mis, Vice-Consul allows one to suppose,” said Lady Bark- 
er. ‘‘ But she is so preUy — prettier than anything 1 have seen for 
ages; and Ombra, toe, is pretty, the late vice-consul’s heiress. They 


OMBBA. 


189 


vfXWfarfurore-r-ivfo such new faces, and both so English; so fresh; 
^0 gauche 

This was Lady Barker’s way of backing her friends; but the - 
friends did not know of it, and it procured them their invitation all 
the same, and Lady Granton’s card to put on the top cf the iQVf 
other cards which callers had left. And Mrs. Anderson came to 
be, without knowing it, the favorite joke of the embassadorial cir- 
cle, jVIrs. Vice-Consul had more wonderful says fastened upon her 
than she ever dreamed ol, and became the type and symbol of the 
heavy British matron to that lively party. Her friend made her 
out to be a bland and dignified mixture of Mrs. Malaprop and Mrs. 
Nickleby. Meanwhile, she had a great many things to do, which 
occupied her, and drove even her anxieties out of her mind. There 
was the settling down— the hiring of servants and additional fur- 
niture, and all the trifles necessaiy to make their rooms “ comfort- 
able;” and then the dresses of the girls to be put in order, and 
especially the dress in which Kate was to make her first appearance. 

Mrs. Anderson had accepted Mr. Courtenay’s conditions; she had 
acquiesced in the piopriety of keeping silent as tc Kate’s prelen 
sions, and guarding her from all approach of fortune-hunters. There 
was even something in this wl^ich was not disagreeable to her 
maternal feelings; for to have Kate made first, and Ombra second, 
would not have been pleasant. But still, at the same time, she 
could not restrain a natural inclination to enhance the importance of 
her paity by a hint— an inference. That little intimation about 
Kate’s coming of age, she had meant to tell, as indeed it did, more 
than she intended; and now her mind was greatly exercised about 
the niece’s ball-dress. “ White tarlatan is, of course, very nice 
for a young girl,” she said, doubtfully, ” it is all my Ombra has 
ever had; but, for Kale, with her pretensions — ” 

This was said rather as one talks to one’s self, thinking aloud, 
than as actually asking advice. 

“ But I thought Kate in Florence was to be simply your niece,” 
said Ombra, who was in the room. “ To make her very fine would 
be bad taste; besides,” she added, with a little sigh, “ Kate would 
look well in white calico. Nature has decked hex so. 1 suppose 1 
never, at my best, was anything like that.’' 

Ombra had improved very much since their arrival in Florence. 
Her fretfuluess had much abated, and there was no envy in this 
sigh. 

“ At your best, Ombra! My foolish darling, do you think your 
best is over?” said the mother, with a smile. 


190 


OMBRA. 


1 mean the bloom,” said Ombra. ‘‘ 1 never had any tlcom — 
and Kate’s is wondertiil. 1 think she gives a pearly, rosy tint to 
the very air, i was always a little shadow, you know !” 

” You will not do yourself justice,” cried Mrs, Anderson, 
”Oh! Ombra, it you only knew how it grieves me. You draw 
hack, and you droop into that dreamy, melancholy way; theie is 
alvTays a mist about 3 ^ 011 . My darling, this is a new place, you will 
meet new people, everything is fresh and strange. Could you net 
make a new beginning, dear, and shake it oft?” 
j ‘‘ ] try,” said Ombra, in a low tone. 

” 1 don’t W'ant to be hard upon you, my own child; but, then, 
dear, you must blame yourself, not any one else. It was not his 
fault.” 

” Please don’t speak cf it,” cried the girl. “ if you could know 
bow humbled 1 feel to think that it is that which has upset my whole 
life! 111 -temper, jealousy, env^y, meanness— pleasant things to have 
in one’s heart! 1 fight with them, but 1 can’t overcome them. It 
1 could only ‘ not care!’ How happy people are who can take 
things easily, and who don’t care!” 

” Very few people do,” said Mrs. Anderson. “ Those who have 
<jora'mand of themselves don’t show their feelings, but most people 
feel more or less. The change, however, will do you good. And 
3 mu must occupy yourself, my love. How nicely you used to draw, 
Ombra! and you have given up drawing. As for poetry, my dear, 
it is very pietty— it is very, very pretty— but 1 fear it is not much 
good.” 

” It does uot sell, you mean, like novels.” 

” 1 don’t know much about novels; but it keeps you always 
■dwelling upon your feelings. And then, if they were ever pub- 
lished, people would talk. They would say, ‘ Where has Ombra 
learned all this? Has she been as unhappy as she says? Has she 
been disappointed?’ My darling, 1 think it does a girl a great deal 
of harm. It you would begin your drawing again. Drawing does 
not tell any tales.” 

” There is no tale to tell,” cried Ombra. Her shadowy face 
flushed with a color which, for the moment, was as bright as Kate’s, 
and she got up hurriedly, and began to arrange some books at a side 
table, an occupation which carried her out of her mother’s xfay. 
and then Kate came in, carrying a basket of fruit, which she and 
Fiancesca had bought in the market. There w’ere scarcely any 
flowers to be had, she complained, hut the grapes, with their pict* 
uiesque stems, and great green leaves, stained with russet, were 


0MB RA. 


19 ^; 

almost as ornamental. A white alabaster tazza, which they had 
bought at risa, heaped with them, was almost more efiective, more 
characteristic than flcwers. 

“ 1 have been trying te talk to the market-women,” she said, 
“ down in that dark, narrow passage, by the Strozzi Palace. Fran- 
cesca kngws all about it, liow pleasant it is going with Francesca. 
— to hear her chatter, and to see her brown little tace light up. She 
tells me such stories ot all the people as we go.” 

‘‘Flow fond you are ot stories, Kate!” 

” Is it wrong? Look, auntie, how lovely this vine- branch looks! 
England is better for some things, though. There will still be some 
clematis over our porch — not in flower, perhaps, but in that 
dcwny, flufty stage, after the flower. Francesca promises mo 
everything soon. Spring will begin in December, she says, so far 
as the flowers go, and then we can make the salon gay. Do you 
know there are quantities of English people at tlie hotel at the cor- 
ner? 1 almost inoiight 1 heard some one say my name as 1 went 
by. 1 looked up, but 1 could not see anybody 1 knew.” 

i hope there is nobody v/e know,” cried Ombra, under her 
breath. 

‘‘ My dear children,” said Mrs. Anderson, with solemnity, ‘‘ you 
must recognize this principle in Italy, that there are English people 
everywhere; and wherever there arc English people, there is sure 
to be some one whom you know, or w^ho knows you. 1 have seen 
it happen a hundred times; so never mind looking up at the win- 
dows, Kate— you may be sure we shall And out quite soon enough. ” 

” Well, 1 like people,” said Kate, carelessly, as she went out of 
the room. ” It will not be any annoyance to me.” 

” 87ie does not care,” said Ombra — *' it is not in her nature. She 
will always be happy, because she will never mind. One is the 
same as another to her. 1 wish 1 had that happy disposition. How 
strange it is that people should be so diflerent! What would kill 
me would scarcely move her— would not cost her a tear.” 

” Ombra, 1 am not so sure—” 

‘‘Oh! but 1 am sure, mamma. She does not understand how 
tilings can matter so much to me. She wonders — 1 can see her 
look at me when she thinks I don't notice. She seems to say. 
What can Ombra mean by it?— how silly she is to care!” 

‘‘ But you have not taken Kate into your confidence?” said Mrs^ 
Anderson, in alarm. 

‘‘ 1 have not taken any one into my confidence—! have no confi- 
dence to give,” said Oinbra, with the ready irritation which had 


192 


QMBRA. 


ccme Ic be so common with her. The mother bf)re it, as mothers 
have to do, turning away with a suppressed sigh. What a difter- 
cnce tbo last year had made on Ombra! — oh! what a thing love 
was to make such a diSereuce in a girl! This is what Mrs. Ander- 
son said to herself with distress and pain; she could scarcely recog- 
nize her own child in this changed manifestation, and she could 
not approve, or even S3unipathize with her, in the degree, at least, 
which Ombra craved. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The fact was that Ombra, as she said, had not given her canfi- 
dence to any one; she had betrayed herself to her mother in her 
first excitement, when she had lost command of herself; but, that 
was all. A real and full confidence she had never given. Ombra’s 
love of sympathy was great, but it was not accompanied, as it gen- 
erally is, b}^ that open heart which finds comfort in disclosing its 
troubles. Her heart was not open She neither revealed herself 
nor divined others; she was not selfish, nor harsh in temper and 
disposition; but all that she was certain of washer own feelings. 
She did not know how to find out what other people were feeling 
or thinking, cunsequently she had a very imperfect idea of those 
about her, aud seldom found out for herself what was going on in 
their minds. This limited her powers of sympathy in a wonder- 
ful way, and it was this which was at the root of all her trouble. 

She had been wooed, but only when it came to a conclusion bad 
«he really known what that wooing meant. In her ignorance she 
had refused the man whom she was already beginning to love, and 
then had gone on ib think about him, after be bad revealed himself 
— to understand all he had been meaning— to love him, with the 
consciousness that she bad rejected him, and with the fear that his 
affections were being transferred to her cousin. This was what 
gave the sting to it all, and made poor Ombra complain so mourn- 
fully of her temper. She did not divine what her love meant till 
it was too late; and then she resented the fact that it was too iate^ 
resented the reserve which she had herself imposed upon him, the 
friendly demeanor she had enjoined. She had begged him, when 
she rejected him, as the greatest of favors to keep up his inter- 
course with the family, and be as though this episode had never 
been. And when the poor fellow obej^ed her she was angry with 
him. 1 do not know whether the minds of men are ever similarly 
effected, but this is a weakness not uncom’mon with women. And 


OMBEA. 


193 


then she took his stihclned tone, his wisiful Jooks, his seldom an- 
proaches to herself, as so many instances that he had ^ot over what 
she called his folly. Why should he continue to nourish his folly 
when she had so promptly announced her indiEerence? And then 
it was that it became apparent to her that he had transferred his 
affections to Kate. As it happened, by the fatality which some- 
times attends such matters, the unfortunate young man never ad- 
dressed Kate, never looked at her, but Ombra found him out. 
When Kale was occupied by others, her cousin took no notice, but 
when that one step approached, that one voice addressed her, Om- 
bra’s eyes and ears were like the lynx. Kale was unconscious of 
the observation, by means of being absolutely innocent; and the 
hero himself was unconscious for much the same reason, and be- 
cause he felt sure that his hopeless devotion to his first love must 
be so plain to her as to make any other theory on the subject out 
ct the question. But Ombra, who was unable to tell what eyes 
meant, or to judge from the general scope of action, set up her 
theory, and made herself miserable. She had been wretched when 
watching “ tliem;’^ she was wretched to go away and be able to 
watch them no longer. She had left home with a sense of relief, 
and yet the news that they were not to return home tor the winter 
smote her like a catastrophe. Even the tact that he had loved her 
once seemed a wrong to her, for then she did not know it; and 
since then had he not done her the cruel injury of ceasing to love 
her? 

Poor Ombra! this was how she tormented herself; and up to 
this moment any effort she had made do free herself, to snap her 
chains, and be once more rational and calm, seemed but to have 
dug the iron deeper into her soul. Nothing cuts like an imaginary 
wrong. The sufferer would pardon a real injury a hundred times 
while nursing and brooding over the supposed one. She hated her- 
self, she was ashamed, disgusted, revolted by the new exhibiticns 
of unsuspected wickedness, as she called it, in her nature. She 
tried and tried, but got no better. But in the meantime all out- 
ward possibilities of keeping the flame alight being withdrawn, 
her heart had melted toward Kate. It was evident that in Kate’s 
lighter and more sunshiny mind there was no room for such cares 
as bowed down her own; and with a yearning for love which she 
herself scarcely understO(»d, she took her young cousin, who was 
ejQtirely guiltless, into her heart. 

Kate and she were silting tcgethei, the morning o^ the ball to 

which the younger girl looked forward so joyfully Ombra was 
7 


194 


OMBRA. 


not unmoved by its approach, tor she was just one year over 
twenty, an age at which balls are still great events, and not unapt 
to influence life. Her heart was a little touched by Kute's anxious 
desire that her dress and ornaments should be as fresh and pretty 
and valuable as her cwn. It was good of her; to be sure there was 
no reason why one should wish to outshine the other; but still Kate 
had been brought up a great lady, and Ombra was but the consul’s 
daughter. Therefore her heart was touched, and she spoke. 

** It does not matter what dress 1 have, Kate, 1 shall look like a 
shadow all the same heside you. You are sunshine—that was what 
you were born to be, and I was born in the shade.’' 

“ Don’t make sc much of yourself, Ombra said Kate. 

** Sunshine is all very well in England, but not here. Am I to bo 
given over to the Englishmen and the dogs, who walk in the sun?’ 

A cloud crossed Ombra’s face at this untoward suggestion. 

'* The Englishmen as much as you please,” she said; and then, 
recovering herself with an effort, ” 1 wonder if 1 shall be jealous^ 
of you, Kate? I am a little afraid of myself. You so bright, so 
fresh, so ready to make friends, and 1 so dull and heavy as 1 am, 
besides all the other advantages on your side. 1 never was in soci- 
ety with you before.” 

” Jealous of mel” Kate thought it was an admirable joke. She 
laughed till the tears stood in hei bright eyes. “But (hen there 
must be love before there is jealousy — or, so they say in books, 
suppose some prince appears, and we both fall in love with him? 
But 1 promise you, it is 1 who shall be jealous. I will hate you! 

1 will pursue you to the ends of the wcild! 1 w’ill wear a dagger 
in my girdle, and when I have done everything else that is cruel, 

1 will plunge it into your treacherous hcaitl Oh! Ombra, what 
fun!” cried the heroine, drying her dancing eyes. 

“ That IS foolish— that is not what 1 mean,” said serious Ombra. 

“ I am very much in earnest. 1 am fond of you, Kate—” 

This was said with a little effort; but Kate, unconscious of the 
effort, only conscious of the love, threw her caressing arm round 
her cousin’s W’aist and kissed her. 

“ Yes,” she said, softly; “ how strange it is, Ombra! I, who had 
nebody that cared for me,” and held her close and fast in the ten- 
der gratitude that filled her heart. 

” Yes, 1 am fond of you,” Ombra continued; “ but if I were to 
see you preferred to me— always first, and 1 only scccnd, more 
thought of, more noticed, better loved! 1 feel— frightened, Kate, 

'nakes one’s heart so sore. One says to one’s self, ‘ It is no matter 


OMBKA. 


195 


w^hat I do ot say. It is ot no use trying to be amiable, trying to 
bt* kind— she is sure to be always the first. People love hei tho 
moment they see her; and at me they ne\er look.’ You don’t 
know what it is to feel like that.” 

” Ko,” said Kate, much subdued; and then she paused. ” But, 
Omhra, 1 am always so pleased— 1 have felt it fifty times; and 1 
have always been so proud. Auntie and 1 go into a corner, and say 
to each other, ‘ What nice people these are— they understand our 
Omhra— they admire her as she should be admired.’ We give each 
other little nudges, and nod at each ether, and are so happy. You 
■^ould be the same, of course, if— though it don’t seem likel}^ — ” 
And here Kate broke ofi; abruptly, and blushed and laughed. 

You are the youngest,” said Ombra— ‘‘ that makes it more 
natural in your case. And mamma, ot course, is— mamma— she 
eioes not count. I wonder — 1 wonder how 1 shall take it— in my 
way or in yours?” 

Are you so sure it will happen?” said Kale, laughing. Kate 
herself did not dislike the notion very much. She had not been 
brought up with that idea ot seif-sacnfice which is inculcated fiom 
their cradles on so many young women. She, felt that it would be 
pleasant to be admired and made much of; and even to throw others 
into the shade. She did not make any resolutions of self-renun- 
ciation. The visionary jealousy which m(*ved Ombra, which arose 
partly from want of confidence in herself, and partly from igno- 
rance ot others, could never have arisen in her cousin. Kate did- 
not think of comparing herself with any one, or dwelling upon the 
superior attractions of another. If people did not care f«)r her, 
why, they did not care for her, and there was an end ot it, so 
much the worse for them. To be sure she never yet had been 
subjected to the lemptalion w’bich had made Ombra so unhappy. 
Tlie possibility of anything of the liind bad never entered her 
Ihoughts. She was eighteen and a half, and had lived for years on 
terms ot sisterly amity with all the Eldridges, flardwicks, and the 
” neighbors ” generally; but as yet she had never had a lover, so 
far as she was aware. ” The boys,” as she called them, were all 
as yet the same to Kate— she liked some more than others, as she 
liked some girls more than others; but to be unhappy or even an- 
Doyed because one or another devoted himself to Ombra more than 
to her, such an idea had never crossed the girl’s mind. She was 
fancy tree, but it did not occur to her to make any pious resolution 
on the subject, or to decide beforeliand that she wxuld obliterate 
herself in a corner, in order lo give Ibe first place and all the 


196 


OMBRA. 


triumph to Omhra. There are young saints capable of doing this; 
but Kate Courtenay was not one of them. Her eyes shone; her 
lose-lips parted with just the lightest breath of excitement. She 
wanted her share of the triumphs too. 

Ombra shooi^ her head, but made no reply. “ Oh/* she said, to 
herself, “ what a hard fate to be always the shadowl” She exerted 
all the imagination she possessed, and threw herself forward, as it 
were, into the evening which was coming. Kate was in all the 
splendoi of her first bloom— that radiance of youth and freshness 
which is often the least elevated kind of beauty, yet almost always 
the most, irresistible. The liquid brightness of her eyes, the wild- 
rose bloom of her complexion, the exquisite sotiness, dbwninesSj 
deliciousness of cheek and throat and forehead, might he all as 
evanescent as the dew upon the sunny grass, or the dowm on a 
peach. It was youth— youth supreme and perfect in its most deli- 
cate fullness, the beaute de diable, as our neighbois call it. Ombra, 
being still so young herself, did not characterize it so; nor, indeed, 
was she aware of this glory cf freshness which, at the present mo- 
ment, was Kate’s crowning charm. But she wondered at her 
cousin’s beauty, and she did not realize her own, which was so 
different, “ Bhall 1 be jealous— shall 1 hate her?” she asked her 
self. At home she had hated her for a moment now and then. 
Would it be the same again?— was her own mind so mean, her 
character so low, as that? Thinking well of one’s self, or thinking 
ill of one’s self, requires only a beginning; and Ombra’s experience 
had not increased her respect for her own nature. Thus she pre- 
pared for the embassadress’s ball. 

it was a strange manner of preparation, the reader will think. 
Our sympathy has been trained to accompany those who go into 
battle without a misgiving— who. whatever jesting alarm they may 
express, are never really afraid of running away; but, after all, the 
man who marches forward with a terrible dread in his mind that 
when the moment comes he will fail, ought to be as iuteresting and, 
certainly, makes a much greater claim upon our compassion than 
he who is tolerably sure of his nerves and courage. The battle of 
the ball was to Ombra as great an event as Alma or Inkermann. 
She had never undergone quite the same kind of peril before, and 
she was afraid as to how she should acquit herself. She represent- 
ed to herself all the meanness, misery, contemptibleness of what 
she supposed to be her besetting sin — that did not require much 
trouble. She summed it all up, feeling humiliated to the ver}^ heart 
by the sense that under other circumstances she had yielded to that 


OMBRA. 


197 


temptation before, and she asked herself— shall 1 fail again? She 
was afraid of herself. She had strung her nerves, and set her soul 
firmly for this struggle, but she was not sure of success. At the 
last moment, when the danger was close to her, she felt as it she 
must fail. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Kate thought she had never imagined anything so stately, so ^ 
beautiful, so gay, so like a place for princes and princesses to meet, 
as the suite of rooms in the Palazzo occupied by the English Em- 
bassy, where the ball was held. The vista which stretched before 
her, one room within another, the lines of light infinitely reflected 
by the great mirrors—the lofty splendid rooms, rich in gold and 
velvet; the jewels of the ladies, the glow of uniforms and decora- 
tions; the beautiful dresses; — all moved her to interest and delight 
Delight was tire first feeling; and then there came the strangest 
sensation of insignificance, which was not pleasant to Kate. For 
three years she had lived in little cottage rooms, in limited space, 
with very simple surroundings. But the first glance at this new 
scene brought suddenly before the girl’s eyes her native dwelling- 
place, her own home, which, of course, was but an English coun* 
Iry-^use, yet was more akin to the size and splendor of the Palaz- 
zo than to the apartments on the Lung- Arno, or the little cottage on 
the Enderclifi. Kate found herself, in spite of herself, mating 
calculations how the rooms at Langton-Ccurtenay would look in 
comparison; and from that she went on to consider whether any 
one here knew of Langton Courtenay, or was aware that she her- 
self was anything but Mrs. Anderson’s niece. She was ashamed of 
herself for the thought, and yet it went quick as lightning through 
her excited mind. 

Lady Granton smiled graciously upcn them, and even shook hands 
with the lady whom she knew as Mrs. Vice-Consul, with more 
cordiality than usual with a gratitude which would have given Mrs. 
Anderson little satisfaction had she known it, to the woman who 
had already amused her so much; but their the group passed on 
like the other groups, a mother and two unusually pretty daugh- 
ters, as people thought, but strangers, nohodies, looking a little 
gauche, and out of place, in the fine rooms, where they w^ere known 
to no ouei Ombra knew what the feeling was ct old, and was not 
affronted by it; but Kate had never been deprived of a certain 


198 


OMBRA. 


siiadow of diiitinction among her peers. The people at Shanklin 
had, to their own consciousness, treated hei just as they would have 
done any niece of Mrs. Anderson’s: but, unconsciously to them- 
selves, the fact that she was Miss Courtenay, of Langtcn-Courte- 
nay, had produced a certain effect upon them. ]Mo doubt Kate’s 
active and lively character had a great deal to do with it, but the 
fact of her heiress-ship, her future elevation, had much to do with 
it also. A certain pre-eminence had been tacitly allowed to her, a 
certain freedom of opinion, and even of movement, had been per- 
i’.itted,^and felt to be natural. She was the natural leader in half 
n-.e pastimes going, referred to and consulted by her companions. 
This had been her lot for these three years past. She had never 
had a chance of learning that lesson of personal insignificance which 
is supposed to be so salutary. All at once, in a moment, she 
learned it now. Kobody looked up to her, nobody considered her, 
nobcdy knew or cared who she was. For the first half-hour Kate 
■was astonished, in spite of all her philosophy, and then she tried to 
persuade herself that she was amused. But the. greatest efiort 
could not persuade her that she liked it. It made her tingle all 
over with the most curious mixture of pain, and irritation, and 
nervous excitement. The dancing was going on merrily, and there 
was a hum of talking and soft laughter all arpund: people passing 
and repassing, greeting each other, shaking hands, introducing to 
each other their common friends. But the three ladies who kuew 
nobody stood by themselves, and felt anything but happy. ♦ 

“ If this is what you call a ball, 1 should much rather have been 
at home,” said Kate, with indignation. 

‘‘ It is not cheerful, is it?” said Ombra. ” But we must put up 
with ii till we see somebody we know. * 1 wish only we could find 
a seat for mamma.” 

Oh! never mind me, my dear,” said Mrs. Anderson. ” 1 caa 
stand very well, and it is amusing to watcfi the people. Lady 
Barker will come to us as soon as she sees us.” 

“ Lady Barker! As if any one cared for her!” said Kate; hut 
even Kate, though she could have cried for mortification, kept look- 
ing out very sharply for Lady Barker. She was not a great lady, 
nor of any importance, so far as sire herself w^as concerned, but 
she held the keys of the dance, of pleasure and amusement, and 
success, for that night, at least, for both Ombra and Kale. The 
tw^o stood and looked on while the pairs of dancers streamed past ^ 
them, with the strangest feelings— or at least Kate’s feelings were 
very strange. Ombra had been prepared for it, and took it more 


OMBKA. 


199 


calmly. She pointed out the pretly faces, the pretty dresses to her 
cousin, by "way of amusing her. 

“ What do you think of this toilet?* she said. “ Look, Kate, 
TV'hat a splendid dark girl, and how well that maize becomes her! 
I think she is a Roman princess. Look at her diamonds. Don’t 
you like to see diamonds, Kate?’* 

*' Yes,’* said Kate, with a laugh at herself, “ they are very pret- 
ty; but 1 thought we came to dance, not to look at the people. Let 
us have a dance, you and 1 together, Ombra— why shouldn’t we? 
If men won’t ask us, we can’t help that — but 1 must dance.’* 

** Oh! hush, my darling,” said Mrs. Anderson, alarmed. ” You 
must not really think of anything so extraordinary. Two girls 
together! It was all very well at Shanklin. Try to amuse yourself 
a little looking at the people. There are some of the great Italian 
nobility here. You can recognize them by their jewels. That is 
one, for instance, that lady in velvet—-’* 

” It is very interesting, no doubt,*’ cried Kate, “ and if they were 
in a picture, or on the stage, 1 should like to look at them; hut it 
is very queer to come to a ball cniy to see the people. Why, wo 
might be their maids, standing in a corner to see the ladies pass. Is 
it light for the lady of the house to ask us, and then leave us like 
this? Do you call that hospitality? It this was Langton-Courte- 
nay,’* said Kate, bringing her own dignity forward unconsciously, 
for the first time for years, ” and it was 1 who was giving this 
hall, 1 sUould be ashamed of myself. Am 1 speaking loud? 1 am. 
sure 1 did not mean it; but I should be ashamed—” 

“ Oh! hush, dear, hush!” cried Mrs. Anderson. Lady Barker 
will be coming presently.’* 

** But it was Lady Grantou who invited us, aunty. It is her 
business to see—’* 

” Hush, my dearest child! How could she, with all these peo- 
ple to attend to? When you are mistress of Langton Courtenay, 
and give balls yourself, you will find out how difficult it is—’* 

“ Langton-Courtenay?” said some one near. The three ladies 
instantaneously roused up out of their languor at the sound. Whose 
voice was it? It came through the throng, as if some one half 
buried in the crowd had caught up the name, and flung it on to 
some one else. Mrs. Anderson looked in one direction, Kate, all 
glowing and smiling, in another, while the dull red flush of old, 
the sign of surprised excitement and passion, came hack suddenly 
to Ombra’s face. Though they had not been aware of it, the little 
group had already been the object of considerable observation; for 


200 


OMBRA, 


the girls were exceptionally pretty, in their different styles, and 
they were quite new, unknown, and piquant in their obvious 
strangeness. Even Kate’s indignation had been noted by a quick- 
witted English lady, with an eyeglass, wlio Wiis surrounded by a 
little court. This lady was slightly beyond the age I'or dancing, 
or, it not really so,' had been wise enough to meet her fate halt- 
way, and to retire gracefully from youth, before youth abandoned 
her. She had taken up her place, lecsisling all solicitations. 

“ Don’t ask me— my dancing days are over. Ask that pretty 
girl yonder, who is longing to begin,” she had said, with a smile, 
to one of her attendants half an hour before. 

' ‘‘ Je ne demande pas mieux, if indeed you are determined,” said 

Ire.* ” But who is she? 1 don’t know them.” 

“Nobody seems to know them,” said Lady Caryisfoit; and so 
the observation began. 

Lady Caryisfort was very popular. She was a widow, well off, 
childless, good-looking, and determined, people said, never to 
tnarry again. She was the most independeni of women, openly 
declaring, on all hands, that she wanted no assistance to get thicugh 
life, but was quite able to take caie of herself. And the conse- 
quence was that eveiwbody abcut was most anxious to assist in 
taking care of her. All sorts of people took all sorts of trouble to 
hep her in doing what she never hesitated to say she could do quite 
Veil without them. She was something of a philosopher, and a 
good deal of a cynic, as such people often are. 

“You would not be so good to me if 1 had any need of yon,’" 
she said habitually; and this was understood to be “ Lady Caryis- 
iort’s way.” 

“ Nobody knows them,” she added, looking at the party through 
her eyeglass. “Pour souls, 1 dare say they thought it was very 
fine and delightful to come to Lady Granton’s’ ball. And if they 
had scores of friends already, scores more would turn up on all 
Sides. But because they know nobody, nobody will take the 
trouble to know them. The younger one is perfectly radiant. That 
is what 1 call the perfection of bloom. Look at her— she is a real 
rosebud! Now, what you all are 

” TV'hy are weJaineanisF'^ said one cf the court. 

“ Well,” said Lady Caryisfoit, who professed to be a man-hater, 
within certain limits, “ 1 am aware that the nicest girl in the world, 
if she were not pretty, might stand there all the night, and nobody 
but a woman would ever think of trying to get any amusement for 
her. But there is what you are capable of admiring— there is 


OMBRA. 


201 


be.Mity, absolute beauty; ncne of your washy imitalionSj but real, 
undeniable loveliness. And there you stand and gape, and among 
a hundred of you she does not find one partner. Oh! what it is to'' 
be a man! ^Vhy, my pet retriever, who is fond of pretty people, 
would have found her out by this, and made liiends with her, and 
here are half a dozen of you fluttering about me!’' ^ 

There was a general laugh, as at a very good joke; and some 
one ventured to siTggest that the flutterers round Lady Caryisfort 
could give a very good reason— 

“Yes,” said that lady, fanning herself tranquilly, “because 1 
don’t want you. In society that is the best of reasons; and that 
pretty creature there does want you, therefore she is left to herself. 
She is getting indignant. Why, she grows prettier and prettier. \ 
wonder those glances don’t set Are to something! Delicious! She 
wants her sister to dance with her. What a charming girl! And 
the sister is pretty, tDo, but knows better. And ihamma — oh! how 
horrified mamma is! This is best of all!” 

Thus Lady Caryisfort smiled and applauded, and her attendants 
laughed and listened. But, curiously enough, though she was so 
interested in Kate, and so indignant at the neglect to which she was 
subjected, it did not occur to her to take the young stranger under 
her protection, as she might so easily have done. It was her way 
to look on — to interfere was quite a diflerent matter. 

“ JNow this is getting quite dramatic,” she cried; “they have 
seen some one they know— where is he?— or even where is she?— 
for any one they know w^ould he a godsend to them. How do you 
do, Mr. Eldridge? How late you are! But please don’t stand be- 
tween me and my young lady. 1 am excited about her; they have 
not found him yet— and how eager she looks! Mr. Eldridge— 
why, good heavens! where has he gone?” 

“ Who was it that said Langlon-Courtenay?” cried Kate— “ it 
must be some one who knows the name, and 1 am sure 1 know the 
voice. Did you hear it. auntie? Langton-Courtenay !— 1 wonder 
who it could be?” 

A whole minute elapsed before anything more followed. Mrs. 
Anderson looked one way, and Kate another. Ombra did* not 
move. If the lively observer, who had taken so much interest iu 
the strangers, could have seen the downcast face which Kate’s 
blight countenance threw into the shade, her drama would instant- 
ly have increased in interest. Ombra stood without moving 
hair’s-breadth — without raising her eyes — without so much as 
breathing, one would have said. Under her eyes that line of hot 


202 


OMBKA. 


color had flu&lied in a moment, giving to her face the look of some- 
thing suppressed and concealed. The others wondered who it was, 
but Omhra knew by instinct wdro had come to disturb their quiet 
once more. She recognized the voice, though neither of her com- 
panionsvdid; and if thtre had not been any evidence so clear as that 
voice — had it been a mere shadow, an echo — she Would have 
known. It was she who distinguished in the ever-moving, ever- 
rustling throng, the one particular movement which indicated that 
some one was making his way toward them. She knew he— they 
—were there, without raising her eyes, before Kate’s cry of joyful 
surprise informed her. 

“ Oh, the Berties!— 1 beg your pardon— Mr. Hardwick and Mr. 
Kldridge. Oh, fancy !— that you should be here!” 

Omhra neither tell or fainted, nor did she even speak. The room 
swam round and round, and then came tack to its place; and she 
looked up, arid smiled, and put out her hand. 

The two pretty strangers stood in the corner no longer; they 
stooa up in the next dance, Kate in such a glow of delight and 
radiance that the whole ball-room thrilled with admiration. There 
had been a little hesitation as to which of the two should be her 
partner— a pause during which the two young men consulted each 
other by a look; but she had herself so clearly indicated which 
Bertie she preferred, that the matter was speedily decided. ” 1 
wanted to have you,” she said, franlily, to Bertie Hardwick, as 
he led her off, ” because 1 want to hear all about home. Tell me 
about home. 1 have not thought of Langton for two years at least, 
and my mind is full of it to-night — 1 am sure 1 don’t know why. 

1 keep thiuking, if 1 ever give a hall at Langton, how much better 
1 will manage it. Fancy!” cried Kate, flushing with indignation, 
” we have been here an hour, and no one has asked us to dance, 
neither Omhra nor me.” 

” That must have been because nobody knew you,” said Bertie 
Hardwick. 

” And whose fault was that! Fancy asking two girls to a dance, 
and then never taking tbe trouble to lock whether they had part- 
ners oi not! If 1 ever give a hall, 1 shall behave differently, you 
may be sure.” 

“ 1 hope you will give a great many balls, and that l*shall be 
there to see.” 

“ Of course,” said Kate, calmly; “ hut if you ever see me neg- 
lecting my duty like Lady Granton, don’t forget to remind me of 
to-night.” 


OMBRA. 


;^03 


Lady Granton's sister was standing next to her, and, of course, 
heard what she said. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

“ It was you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge, ” said Lady Caryis* 
foit. “lell me about them — you can’t think how interested 1 
am. She thinks Lady Granton neglected her duty, and she means 
to beliave very differently when she is in the same position. She 
is delicious! Tell me who she is.” 

' “My cousin knows better than 1 do,” said Bertie Eldridge, 
diawing back a step. “ She is an old friend and neighbor of his,’^ 

“ If your cousin were my son, 1 should be frightened of so very 
dangerous a neighbor,” said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her 
ways to distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger 
than herself. 

“ Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,” 
said Bei tie Hardwick. “ She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, 
though you laugh, you may some day see whether she can keep the 
resolution to behave differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Lang- 
ton-Courtenay, Lady Caryisfort. Aou must know her well enough 
by name.” 

“ What!— the vice-consurs niece! 1 must go and tell Lady 
Gianton,” said an attacliey who was among Lady Caryisfort ’s at- 
tendants. 

She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused 
look. 

“ jSTow my little friend will have plenty of partners,” she said. 
“ Oh! you men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty 
girl to dance until you have a certificate of her position! But 1 
don’t mean you two. You had the certificate, 1 suppose^ a long 
time ago?” 

“ Yes. She has grown very pretty,” said Bertie Eldridge, iu a 
patronizing tone. 

“ How kind of you to think so!— how good of you to make her 
dance! as the French say. Mr. Hardwick, 1 suppose she is ymur 
father’s squire? Are you as condescending as your cousin? Give 
me your arm, please, and introduce me to the party. 1 am sure 
they must be fun. 1 have heard of Mrs. Vice-Consul—” 

“ 1 don’t think they are particularly funny,’' said Bertie Hard- 
wick, wilh a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose. 


204 


OMBRA. 


“ Ah!” she said lo hersell, ” a victim!” and was on the alert at 
once. 

“It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, 1 suppose?” she 
said. “ The other is — her cousin. 1 see now. And 1 assure you, 
Mr. Hardwick, though she is not (1 suppose?) an heiress, she is 
V(ry pretty too.” 

Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction 
to Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and 
a very great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a person- 
age should leave her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet 
there were drawbacks to this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had 
a way ot making her own theories on most things that fell under 
her observation; and she did so at once in respect to the group so 
sudden^ brought under her observation. 8h.e paid Mrs. Anderson 
a great many compliments upon her two girls. 

“i hear from Mr. Hardwick that 1 ought to know your niece 
‘ at home,* as the school-boys say,” she said. “ Caryisfort is not 
more than a dozen miles from Langton-Courtenay. 1 certainly did 
not expect to meet my young neighbor here.” 

“ Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving 
about,” murmured Mrs. Andersen. 

“Oh! to be sure— it is quite natural,” said Lady Caryisfort; 
“ but 1 should have thought Lady Granton would have known who 
her guest was — and— and all of us. There are so many English 
people always here, and it is so hard to tell who is who—” 

“If you will pardon me,” said Mrs. Anderson, who was not 
without a sense of her own dignity, “ it is just because of the diffl- 
cultj in telling who is who that 1 have brought Kate here. Her 
guardian does not wish her to be introduced in England till she is 
of age; and as 1 am anxious not to attract any special attention, 
such as her position .might warrant—” 

“ Is her guardian romantic?” said. Lady Caryisfort. “ Does he 
want her to be loved for heiself alone, and that sort of thing? For 
otherwise, do ycTw know, 1 sliould think it was dangerous. A 
pretty girl is never quite safe.” 

“ Of course,” said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, “ there are some 
risks, which one is obliged to run— with every girl.” 

And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by, and 
either Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady 
Caryisfort fancied he did; tor she was very busy making her little 
version of the story, and every circumstance, as far as she had 
gone, fitted in. 


OMBKA. 


205 


“ But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. 
Suppose she should fancy some one beneath— some one not quite 
sufllcient]}^ — some one, in short, ivhom her guardians would not ap- 
prove of? Do you l^now, 1 think it is a dreadful responsibility for 
you/’ 

Mrs. Anderson smited; but she gave her adviser a sudden look 
of fright and partial irritation. 

“ 1 must take my chance with others,” she said. ” We'can only 
hope nothing will happen.” 

“ JSothing happen! When it is gir^s and boys that are in ques- 
tion 8( methin 2 always happens!” cried Lady Caryisfcrt, elevating 
irer eyebrows. “ But here come your two girls, looking very hap- 
py. Will you introduce them to me, please? 1 hope ycu will not 
be afironted with- me for an inquisitive old woman,” she went on, 
with her most gracious smile; “ but 1 have been watching you for 
over so long.” 

She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her 
drooped eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there 
-could be no mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark 
girl, the quiet one, who, now ihat she had time to examine her, 
proved almost more interesting than the beauty — had changed, too, 
lighting up like a sky at sunset. The red line had gone from under 
Ombra’s eyes; there was a rose-tint on her cheek which came and 
went; her eyes were dewy, like the first stars that come out at 
evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but bright tor the moment, 
as was the other one — the one who was all made of color and light. 

” This is my niece. Lady Caryisfort,” said Mrs. Anderson, with 
an effort; and she added, in a lower tone, “ This is Ombra,, my 
own child.” 

” Do you call her Ombra? "What a pretty name! and how ap- 
propriate! Then of course the other one is Sunshine,” said Lady 
Caryisfort. ” 1 Hope 1 shall see something of them while 1 stay 
liere; and, young ladies, 1 hope, as 1 said, that you do not consider 
me a very impertinent old woman because 1 have been watching 
you ” 

Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh. 

” Are you an old woman?” she said. “ 1 should not have 
guessed it.” 

Lady Caryisfort turned toward Kate with growing favor. How 
subtle is file eff;ect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate 
spoke out frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, 
which placed her on a level wiUi all these princesses and great la- 


206 


OMBKA. 


dies; while Ombra, though she was older and more experienced^ 
huDg shyly Imck, and said nothing at all. Lady Caiyisfort, with 
her quick eyes, perceived, or thought she perceived, this difterence 
in a moment, and, half-unconsciously, inclined toward the one 
who was of her own caste. 

“ Old enouah to be your grandmother,” she said; ” and I am 
your neighbor, besides, at home, so 1 hope we shall be great friends. 
I suppose you have heard of the Caryisforts? Ko! Why, 3^011 
must be a little changeling* not to know the pecpie in your own 
county. You know Bertie Hardwick, though?” 

** Oh! 3 "es— 1 have known him all my life,” said Kate, calmly, 
looking up at her. • 

How different the two girls were! The bright cue (Lady Oar 3 ^- 
isfort remarked to herself) as calm as a summer day; the shadowy 
one all changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was 
easy to see what that meant. 

This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for 
already the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfert had prophe- 
sied was pouring upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, ha<l come 
to the rescue as soon as the appearance of the two Berties emanci- 
pated the cousins. When they did not absolutely require her help, 
she protfeied it, according to Lady CaryisterBs rule; and even 
Lady Granton herself showed signs of interest. An heiress is not an 
every-day occurrence even in the highest circles*; and this was not 
a common heiress, a mere representative of money, but the last of 
an old family, the possessor of fair and solid English acres, old, 
noble houses, a name any man might be proud of uniting to his 
own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too high, most 
people felt — threre was no justice in it. Fancy, ricli, well-born, 
and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much. 

” 1 can not think why you did not tell me,” said Lady Barker, 
coming to Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had ma<le rather a 
mistake with her Mrs. Vice-Consul ; and the recollection of her jokes 
about Kate’s possible inheritance made her redden when she thought 
of them. She had put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her 
stupid attache had found it out. 

” 1 had no desire to tell anybody— I am sorry it is known now,’" 
smd Mrs. Anderson. 

Long before this a comfortable place had been found f( r Kate’s 
aunt. Her heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watch- 
ing and struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are cem- 


OMBRA. 


207 


pellecl to submit to when they venture among tlie great. But it is 
doubtful whether Mrs. Anderson was quite happy in her sudden 
elevation. Her leeliugs were of a very mixed and uncertain char- 
acter. So far as Lady .Baricer was concerned, she could .not but 
feel a certain pride —she liked to show the oi l friend, who was 
patronizing and kind, that she needed no exercise of condescension 
on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was 
pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the fea^t, was bid- 
den, “ Friend, go up higher.” That sensation can notjbe otherwise 
than pleasant— the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and 
regrets with which she was discovered ” to have been standing all 
this time;” the slight discomfiture of the people round, who had 
taken no notice, on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and 
not nobody, as they thought All this had been pleasant. But it 
was not so pleasant to feel in so marked and distinct a manner that 
it w^as all on Kate’s account. Kate was very well; her aunt was 
fond of her, and good to her, and would have been so independent 
of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own value, such as it w^as 
— and most of us put a certaiu value on ourselves — and the beauty 
and sweetness of iier child, who, to her eyes, was much more love- 
ly than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an elevaiion 
which w^as halt coni^m}3tuous, should be accorded to them solely 
on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took 
advantage of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect, but 
it w^ounded her pride, notwithstanding, in the lenderest point. 
Kate, whom she had scolded and petted into decorum, whom she 
had made with her own hands, so to speak, into the semblance she 
now bore, whose faults and deficiencies she was so sensible of! 
Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of dignity ” among all the best 
people ” w\as pleasant to her; but the thought that she had gained 
it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. And Ombra, her 
child, her first of things, was nothing hut Kate’s cousin. ‘‘P>ut that 
will soon be set to rights,” the mother said to herself, with a smile; 
and then she added aloud— 

‘‘ 1 am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A 
girl in Kate’s position has enough to go through at home, without 
being exposed to -to fertune-hunters and annoyances beic. Had I 
known these boys were in Florence, 1 should not have come. 1 
am ver}^ much annoyed. Kothing could be further from her guard- ' 
ian’e wishes— or my own.” 

” Oh, well, you can’t help it,” said Lady Barker. It was not 
your fault. But you can't hide an heiress. You might as well try 


208 


OMBRA. 


to pul brcwn-holland covers on a light house. By the bye, young 
Eldridge is very well connected, and very nice— don’t you think?'’’ 

“ He is Sir Herbert Eldridge's son,"’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly. 

“Aes. Not at all bad-looking, and all that. Nobody could 
consider him, you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if 
you take my advice, you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s- 
length. Some of them aie veiy captivating in their way; and then 
it sounds romantic, and girls are pleased. There is that young 
Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is dancing with now. He is 
one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, and he has not a 
sou. Of course he la looking out for some one with money. Posi- 
tively you must take great care. Ah, 1 see it is Mr. Eldridge your 
daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, 1 suppose?” 

Very old friends,” said Mrs. Andersen; and she w^as not sorry 
when her questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, 
she was not much impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the 
young Count Buoncompagni. fler eyes were fixed upon Ombra, 
as was natural, in the abstract, a seat even upon velvet cushions 
(with prickles in them), against an emblazoned wall, for hours to- 
gether, with no one whom you know to speak to, and only such 
crumbs of entertainment as are tlirown to you when some one says, 
” A prelty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think 
Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady^ Granton, how well 
she is looking!” — even with such brilliant interludes of conversa- 
tion as the above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. 
But when Mrs. Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she w^as happy; she 
was content to sit against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow 
to herself tnat she was sleepy. ‘‘ Poor dear Kate, too!” she said to 
herself, with compunction, “ 5^6 is as happy as possible.” Thus 
nature gave a compensation to Ombra tor being only Miss Courte- 
nay’s cousin — a compensation which, for the moment, in the warmth 
of personal happiness, she did not need. 


CHAPTER XXXVlll. 

“Why should you get up this morning, signora mia?” said old 
Francesca. “ The young ladies are fast asleep, still. And it was a 
grand success, a die lo dite. Did not 1 say so fiom the beginning? 
Tc be sure it was a grand success. The signorine are dieine. if 
1 were a young principe, or a marchesino, 1 know what 1 should 
do. Mees Katta is charming, my dearest lady; but, rtostra Ombra 
—ah I nostra Ombra—” 


OMBEA. 


209 


“Francesca, we must not be prejiidicecl,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
who was taking her coffee in bed — a most unusual indulgence — 
while Francesca stood ready for a gossip at the bedside. The old 
woman was fond of petting her mistress when she had an oppor- 
tunity, and of persuading her into little personal indulgences as old 
•servants so often are. The extra trouble of bringing up the little 
tray, with the fragrant coffee, the little white roll from the English 
baker, which the signora was so prejudiced as to prefer, and one 
white camellia out of last night’s ^bouquet, in a little A^enetian glass, 
to serve the purpose of decoration, was the same kind of pleasure 
to her as it is to a mother to serve a sick child who is not ill enough 
to alarm her. Francesca lilted it. She liked the thanks, and the 
protest against so innocent an indulgence with which ic was always 
accompanied. 

“ 1 must not be so lazy again. 1 am quite ashamed of myself; 
But 1 was fatigued last night.” 

“ Si I /” 'Cried Francesca. “ To be sure the signora was tired. 
What! sit up till four o’clock, she vvho goes to bed ai eleven; and 
my lady is not twenty now, as she once was! Ah! 1 remember the 
day w^hen, after a ball, madame was fatigued in a very different 
way.” 

“Those days are long past, Francesca,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
with a smile, shaking her head. She d^d not dislike being remind- 
ed of them. She had knowm in her time what it w’as to be ad- 
mired and sought after; and after silting for six hours against 
the W’all, it was a little consolation to reflect that slie too had had 
her day. 

“As madame pleases, so be it,” said Francesca; “though my 
lady could still shine writh the best it she so willed it; But for my 
-own part 1 think she is right. When one has a child, and such a 
child as our Ombra—” 

“My dear Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’' said Mrs. 
Anderson. “ Ombi’a is very sw^eetio you and me; and 1 think she 
is very lovely ; but Kate is mere beautiful than she is— ^Kate has 
such a bloom. 1 myself admire her very much — not of course so 
much as— my own clnld.” 

“ If the signora had said it 1 should not have believed her,” 
said Francc'ca. “ 1 should be sorry to show any want of educa- 
tion to madame, but 1 should not have believed her. Mademoiselle 
Katta is good child — 1 love her— I am what j^ou call fond; but she 
is not like our Ombra. It is not necessary that 1 should draw The 
distinction. The signora knows it is quite a different thing.” 


210 


OMBKA. 


Yes, yes, Francesca, 1 know—1 know only too well; and 1 
hope 1 am not unjust,” said Mrs. Andewson. “ 1 hope 1 am not 
unkind— 1 can not help it being different, liothing would make 
me neglect my duty, 1 tiust; and 1 have no reason to be anything 
but fond of Kate— 1 love her very much; but still, as you say—” 

“ The signora knows that 1 understand,” said Fiancesca. ” Two 
gentlemen have called already this morning— already, though it is 
so early. They are the same young signorini who came to the 
Cottage in the Isleofwite.” (Ti^' Francesca pronounced as one 
word ) ” Now, if the signora \mfld tefl me, it would make me 
happy. There is two, and 1 ask myl^lf— which T” 

Mrs. Anderson shook her head. 

” And so do 1 sometimes,” she said; ‘‘and 1 thought 1 knew; 
hut last night— My dear Fiancesca, when 1 am sure 1 will tell 
you. But, indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,” she added, with 
a sigh. 

Fiancesca shook her head. 

” Madame would say that perhaps it is bese.” 

1 have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca's 
broken English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. 
It might be gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain ac- 
quaintance with those tongues; but it is alw^ays doubtful whether 
the reader will share that gratification. But when she addressed 
her mistress, Francesca spoke Italian, and consequently used much 
better language tlian when she was compelled to toil through all 
the contusing sibilants and ihs of the English tongue. 

“ 1 do not know— 1 can not tell,” said Mrs Anderson. ” Take 
the tray, mia huona arnica. You ^all know when 1 kno^\ And 
now 1 think 1 must get up. One can't stay in bed, 5 mu know\ all 
day.” 

When hei mistrsss thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that 
it was no longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied 
that Mrs. Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was 
in the meantime to make her own observations. Keener eyes w^ere 
never applied to such a purpose, hut at the present moment h i an- 
cesca was too much puzzled to come to any speedy decision on the 
subject; and notwithstanding her love fer Ombra, who was supreme 
in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling for Kate which had 
not occurred to the other ladies. ” Santissima Madonna! it is 
hard — very hard for the little one,” she said to herself, as she 
mused over the matter. “ Who is to defend her from Fate? She 
will see them every day— she is y(>ung— they are young— what can 


OMBRA. 


211 


any one expect? Ah! Madonna mia, send some good young mar- 
chesino, some piccolo principle, to make the signorina a great lady, 
and save her from breaking her little heart. It would be good tor 
la patria, too,” Francesca resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s 
wealth. 

She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural 
to identify herself with her family. She did not even toil for 
duty, not for meed,” but planned and deliberated over all their 
affairs with the much more spontaneous and undoiibting sentiment 
that their affairs were her own, and that they mutually belonged ta 
each other. She said “ our Ombra ” with as perfect good-faith as 
if her young mistress had teen her own child— and so indeed she 
was. The bond between them was too real to be discussed or even 
described — and consequent!}^ it was with the natural interest of one 
pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all over in 
her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate and keep 
hei unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty. 

When Count Antonio Buoncompagni catrie with his card and his 
inquiries, the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca 
was a Florentine of the Florentines. She knew all about the 
Buoncompagni; her aunt's husband’s sister had been cameriera to 
the old (luchessa, Antonio’s grandmother; so that in a manner, she 
said to herself, she belonged to the family. The contessina, his 
mother, had made her first communion along with Francesca’s 
younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain spiritual bond 
between them. Ihe consequence of all these important facts, taken 
together, was that Francesca felt* hersi If the natural champion of 
Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at the 
most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the 
Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from 
the responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was 
young and very good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those , 
frank and Iriendly tones which she had so missed in England: he 
called her arnica mia^ though he had never seen her before. ” Ah! 
Santissima Madonna, quella differenza !'* she said to herself, as he 
went down the long stair, and the young Englishmen, who had 
known her for years, and were very friendly to the old woman, 
came up, and got themselves admitted without one unnecessary 
word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as they went 
and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all her 
house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but 
it never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and 


212 


OMBKA. 


abettor to the young count, should he mean lo present himself as 
a suitor to Kate, would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of 
all things that could happen to the signorina, the best possible thing 
— the good fortune most to, be desired—would be that she should 
get a noble young husband, 'who would be very fond of her, and to 
whose house she would bring joy and prosperity. The Buoncom- 
pagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king himself, were poor; 
and Francesca knew very well what a difference it would make in 
the faded grand palazzo it Kate went there with her wealth. Even 
so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, Francesca 
thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not the 
whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? “ It will be good 
for la pdtria, too,” she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, 
like a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty. 

She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the salon where the ladies 
were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the 
windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not say- 
ing much; while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s 
chatter. Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over 
all last night’s proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her 
feelings. She was describing her own anger, mortification, and 
dismay; then her relief, when she caught sight of the two young 
men. “ Kot because it was you,” she said gayly, “ but because 
you were men — or boys— things we could dance with; and because 
you knew us, and could not help asking us.” 

** That is not a pleasant way of stating it,” said Bertie Eldridge. 

If you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in find- 
ing ycu, and how transported we were—” 

1 suppose you must say that,” said Kate; “ please don’t take 
the trouble. 1 know you could not help making me a pretty 
speech; but what 1 say is quite true. We were glad, not because 
it was you, but because we felt in a moment, here are some men 
we know, they can not leave us standing here all night; we must 
.T)e able to get a dance at last.” 

“ X have brought the signora a card,” said Francesca, interrupt- 
ing the talk. “ Ah, such a beautiful young signor! What a con- 
solation to me to be in my own country; to be called arnica mia 
once again. You arc very good, you English signori, and very 
kind in your way, but you never speak as if you loved us, though 
we may serve you for years. When one comes like this handsome 
young Count Antonio, how different! ‘ Cara mia,' he* says, ‘put 
me at the feet of their excellencies. 1 hope the beautiful young 


OMBEA. 


213 


ladies are not too much latigued!’ Ah, my English gentlemen, you 
do not talk like that! You say, ‘Are they quite well— Madame 
Anderson and the young ladies?’ And if it is old Francesca, nr a 
new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of difier- 
ence! Y'ou are cold; you are insensible; 3 ^ou are not like our 
Italian. Siguorina Katta, do 3 'Ou know the name on the card?” 

“ It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!” said Kate, with a bright 
blush and smile. “ Why, that was my partner last night! How 
nice of him to come and call — and what a pretty name! Aud he 
dances like an angel, Francesca — 1 never saw any one dance so 
w'ell!'’ 

“ Thai is a matter cf course, signorina. He is young; he is a 
Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had educa- 
tion for a thousand years— what should hinder him to dance? If 
Ihesignoiina will come to me when these gentlemen leave you, 1 
will tell her hundreds of beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. 
We are, as it were, connecied— the sister-law of my aunt Pilomena 
was once maid to the old duchessa— -besides other ties,” Francesca 
added, raising her head with a certain careless grandeur. ‘‘No- 
body knows better than 1 do the history of the Buoncompagni; and 
the signorina is very fond of stories, as madame knows.” 

” My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with 
ycur stories,” said Mrs. Anderson, good-humoredly. And she 
afidei^, when the old woman had left the room, ‘‘ Often and often 
I have been glad to hear Francesca’s' stories m 3 ^self. Alt these 
Italian fami!ies have such curious histories. She will go on from 
one to another, as it she never would have done. She knows 
eveiybcly. and whom they all married, and alt about them. And 
there is some truth, you know, in what she says— we are very kind, 
but we don’t talk to our servants nor show an 3 ' affection for them. 
1 am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faith- 
ful service, but even I don’t ao it. Kate has a frank w.ay with 
everybody. But our English reserve is dreadful!” 

” We don't say everything that comes uppermost,” said one of 
the young men. ‘‘ We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,” 
said the otlier. 

” No,” said Ombra; perhaps, on the contrary, you keep them 
so covered up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts 
at all.” 

Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of 
the others; it had a Uieaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, 
but fully intended. This ccnsciousness startled all the little party. 


214 


OMBRA. 


Mrs. Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began 
to talk fast on all manner cf subjects; and Ombra, probably re- 
penting the seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate 
the eftect of it. But Kate kept the count’s card in her hand, pon- 
dering over it. A young Italian noble; the sort of figuie which, 
appears in books and in pictures; the kind of person tv^ho acts as 
hero in tale and song. He had come to lay himself at the feet of 
the beautiful young ladies. Well! perhaps the two Berties meant 
just as much by the clumsy shy visit which they were paying at 
that moment — but they never laid themselves at anybody’s feet. 
They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any expression 
of friendship or affect ionateness to escape them. Had they no hearts 
at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter 
persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted 
them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out 
after a while, on pretense of seeking her work, and flew to the 
other end of the long, straggling suite of rooms to wdiere Fran- 
cesca sat. “ Tell me all about them,” she said, bieathlessly. And 
Francesca clapped her hands mentally, and felt that her work had 
begun. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“It is very interesting,” said Kate; “but it is about this 
count’s grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we 
come a little lower down?” 

” Sigucrina mia, tvhen one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather 
is very close and near,” said Francesca. There are some families 
in which a grandfather is a distant ancestor, or x>erhaps the begin- 
ning of the race. But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt 
that way of reckoning. Count Antonio’s mother is living— she is 
a thing of to-day, like the rest of us. Then 1 ask, Signorina Katta, 
whom can one speak of? That is the way in old families. Doubt- 
less in the signor ina’s own house—” 

“Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years ofl,” said Kate. “I 
don’t believe in him— he must have been so dreadfully old. Even 
papa was old. He married when he was about fifty, 1 suppose, 
and I never saw him. My poor little mother was diflerent, but 1 
never saw her either. Don’t speak of my family, please. I sup- 
pose they were very nice, but 1 don’t know much about them.” 

** Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,” said Fran- 
cesca, nodding her little gray head. ” Mademoiselle would feel 


OMBEA. 


215 


ver}' strange if all at once it weie said to her, ‘ You never had a 
giundpapa. You are a child of the people, my young lady. You 
came tiom no one knows where.’ Ah, you prefer the old ones to 
that, Bignorina Katta. If you were to go into the Buoncompaani 
Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the old cavalieii in 
their armor, and the ladies with pearls and rubies upon their beau- 
tiful robes! The contiuo would be rich if he could make up his 
mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the signor ina will per- 
ceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors — that is a thing one 
could never do.” 

“ ISo, 1 should not like to sell them,” said Kale, thoughtfull}’. 
“ But do you mean that? Are the Buoncorapagni poor?” 

” Signorina mia,” said Ihancesca, wu'lh dignity, ” when were 
they rich— our grand nohili Italiani? Kot since the da^'s when 
Firenze was a queen in the world, and did what she would. That 
was ended a long, long lime ago. And what, then, was it the duty 
of the great signori to do? I'hey had to keep their old palaces, and 
all the beautiful things the house had got when it w’us rich, ft-r the 
good of la patria, when she should wake up again. They had to 
keep all the old names, and the recollections. Signorina Katta, 
a common race could not have done this: We poor ones in the 
streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage 
and our gayety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, 
and such like, kept up the race. They would rather live in a cor- 
ner of the old palazzo than part with it to a stranger. They would 
not sell the pictures, and the belle cose, except now and then one 
small piece, to keep the iamily alive. And now, look you, signo- 
rina mia, lapatria has woke up at last, and ecco! Her old names, 
and her old palaces, and the belle cose are here wailing for her. Ah! 
we have had a great deal to suffer, but we are not extinguished. 
Certainly they are poor, but what then? They exist; and every 
true Italian wTIl bless them for that.” 

This old woman, with her ruddy brown, dried-up little face, and 
her scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it—cuiious littlei 
figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing 
at when she arrived first at Shanklin, was~a politician, a visionary, 
a patriot'cnthusiast. Kale now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca 
with respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down 
at the bottom of her heait, to laugh. But for this she took herself 
very sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the naluial En- 
glish inclination to be ccntempluous of all ” foreigners ” who took 
a different view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. 


216 


OMBEA. 


If the Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their 
Xjosition; it they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; 
if they had done some active work, jnsiead of vegetating and j^re- 
serving their old palaces, she asked herself? 

Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got into the 
Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound 
to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was revolutionary by nature, 
and her natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natu- 
ral Radicalism of her age, and that propensity to contradict, and 
form theories of her own, which were part of her character. It 
was part of hercbaractei still, though it had been smoothed down, 
and brought under subjection, by her aunt’s continual indulgence. 
She was not so much impressed as she felt she ought to have been 
by Francesca’s speech. 

“lam glad they exist,” she said. “ Of course we must all real- 
ly have had the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, 
but still an cld family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca— 
don’t be angry— suppose they had d(»ne something, while the f atria, 
you know, has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to 
recover their money, to do something more than exist ! It is only a 
suggestion— probably 1 am quite wrong, but—” 

” The signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,” said 
Francesca, with lofty satire, “ what, in her opinion, it would have 
been best for our nobles to do?” 

“Oh! 1 am sure 1 don’t know. 1 only meant— 1 don’t know 
anything about it 1” cried Kate. 

“ If the signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,” 
said Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her 
needle, and was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punish- 
ment for Kate, who had left the visitors in the drawing-room to 
seek a more lively amusement in Francesca's company, and who, 
after the excitement of the ball, was anxious for some other excite- 
ment. She revenged herself by pulling the old woman’s work 
about, and asking what was this, and this. Francesca was making 
a dress lor her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though she did not de- 
spise the fashion, was sutilciently sensible to take her own way, and 
keep certain peculiarities of her own. 

“ Why do you make it like this?” said Kate. “ Auntie is not a 
hundred. She might as well have her dress made like other peo- 
ple. She is very nice-looking, 1 think, for her age. Don’t you 
think so? She must have been pretty once, Francesca. Wb 3 % you 


OMBEA. 


217 


ought to know — you knew her when she was young. Don’t you 
think she has been?” 

“ Signoiina, be so good as to let my work alone,” said Francesca. 
** What! do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be ad- 
mired? 1 did not expect to find so little education in one of my 
signorinas. Know, Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many per- 
sons who think madame handsomer than either of the young ladies. 
Tlieie is an air ot distinction and of intelligence. You, for in- 
stance, you have the heaiite de diahle — one admires you because you 
are so young; but how do ycu know that it will last? Y'our features 
are not remarkable. Signor ina Katta. When those roses are gone, 
probably you will be but an ordinary-looking woman; but my 
Signora Anderson, she has features, she has the grand air, she has 
distinction—” 

“Oh! VDu spiteful old woman!” cried Kate, half vexed, half 
laughing. ” I never said 1 thought 1 was pretty. 1 know 1 am 
just like a doll, all red and white; but you need net tell me so, all 
ihe same.” 

‘'Mademoiselle is not like a doll,” said Francesca. ‘‘ Sometimes, 
when she has a better inspiration, mademoiselle has something 
more than red and white. 1 did not affirm that it would not last. 
1 said how do you know? Bat my signora has lasted. She is no- 
ble!— she is distinguished! And as for what she has been— ” 

“ That is exactly what 1 said,” said Kate. 

” We do not last in Italy,” said Francesca, pursuing the subject 
With the gravity of an abstract philoscphcr. ” It is, perhaps, our 
beautiful climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and 
of rain, keeps the grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Con- 
tessa Biioncompagni has lost all her beauty. She, was of the Strozzi 
family, and made her first communion on the same day as my little 
Angiolina, who is now blessed in heaven. Allow me to say it to 
you, signorina mia, they were beautiful as two angels, in their 
while veils. But the contessina has grown old. She has lost her 
bair, which does not happen to the English signore, and— other 
things. 1 am more old than she, and when 1 see it 1 grieve. She 
does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to 
the duomg^ She is a good woman — a very good 'woman. If she 
can not afford to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? 
She is a great lady, as great as anybody in ail Firenze — Countess 
Buoncompagni, born Strozzi. What would you have more? But, 
dear lady, it is no shame to her that she is not rich. Santissima 
Madonna, why should one hesitate to say it? It is not her fault.” 


218 


OMBRA. 


“ Of course it can not be her fault ; nobody would choose to be 
poor it they could help it/' said Kate. 

“ 1 can not say, biguorina Katta— -1 have not any information on 
the subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen— though 1 
have no special information— that one would choose to be poor. 1 
am poor myself, but 1 would not change places with many who are 
rich. 1 should esteem more/' said Francesca, raising her head, 

a young galantuomo who was noble and poor, and had never done 
anything against the patria, nor humbled himself before the Te* 
deschi, a hundred and a thousand times more than those who hold 
places and honors. But then 1 am a silly old woman, most likely 
the signorina will say." 

" Is Count Buoncompagni like that?" asked Kate; but she did 
not look for an answer. 

And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Fran- 
cesca put down her work, and bustled away to open the door for 
the young Englishmen whose company Kate had abandoned. The 
girl took up Francesca’s work, aud made half a dozen stitches; and 
then went to her own room, where Maryanne was also at work. 
Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at the ball to the handmaid- 
en, who listened with breathless interest. 

“ 1 don't think any one could have looked nicer than you and 
Miss Ombra in your fresh tarlatan, miss," said Maryanne. 

‘‘ hlobody took the least notice of us," said Kate. " \Ye are not 
worth noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. 
We were but a couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. 1 
think 1 will choose a color that will make some show if 1 ever go 
to a ball again." 

Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!" cried Mary- 
aiine, with fervor. 

Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain ; but she felt, with 
a certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once 
been to a ball must go on. Sbe can not be shut up again in any 
nursery and school-room; she is emancipated forever and ever; the 
glorious world is thrown open to her. The tarlatan which marked 
her bread-and-butter days would no doubt yield to more splendid 
garments; but she could not go back— she had made her entry into 
life. 

Lady Caryisfort called the next day — an event which filled Mrs. 
Anderson with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object 
of her visit; and as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt aud cousin 
had practically felt the great advantage which her position gave 


OMBRA. 


219 


her over them, there was, without doubt, some ditficulty in the 
situaticn. But, fortunately, Ombra’s attention was otherwise oc- 
cupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she was a high-spirited woman, 
and did not relish the idea of deriving consequence entirely from 
the little girl whom she had brought up, had yet that philosophy 
which more or less is the accompaniment of experience, and knew 
that it was much better to accept the inevitable graciously, than to 
fight against it. And if anything could have neutralized the wound 
to her pride, it would have been the “ pretty manners of Lady 
Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in Ombra. Indeed, 
Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did — a consoling 
circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to “ lake 
them up/' It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so 
amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly 
good society to her 'proUg^Sy that few people at the moment of be- 
ing taken up realized the fact that they musi inevitably be let down 
again by and by — a process not so pleasant. 

At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new 
fiiend. She called for them when she went out driving, and took 
them to Fiesole, to La Pioggia, to the Cascine — wherever fashion 
went. She lent them her carriage when she was indolent, as often 
happened, and did not care to go out. She asked them to her little 
parties when she had “the best people" — a compliment which 
Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was very diffeient fiom the 
invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to which everybody was 
invited. In short. Lady Caryisfort launched the little party into 
the best society of English at Florence, such as it is. And the 
pretty English heiress became as well known as it she had gone 
through a season at home previous lo this Italian season. Poor 
Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who 
danced like an angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a 
cotillon, what would that excellent guardian’s feelings have been? 


CHAPTER XL. 

We have said that Ombia’s attention was otherwise occupied.- 
Had it not been sc, it is probable that she would have resented and 
struggled against the new and unusual and humiliating conscious- 
ness of being but an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all 
such ideas had been driven out of her head. A new life, a new 
world, seemed to have begun for Ombra. All the circumstances 


220 


OMBKA. 


of their present existence appeared to lend themselves to the crea- 
tion of this novel sphere. Old things seemed to have passed away, 
and all had become new. From the moment of the first call, made 
in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had resumed 
again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former ac- 
quaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at 
once the common bond which unites strangers in a new place —a 
place full of beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which 
it is so natural they should see together. The two young men fell 
into the habit of constant attendance upon the ladies, with a natural- 
ness whicn defeated all precautions; and an intercourse began to 
spring up, which combined that charming flavor of old friendship, 
and almost brotherhood, with any other sentiment that might arise 
by the way. This conjunction, too, made the party so independent 
and so complete. \V ith such an escort the ladies could go any- 
where; and the}^ went everywhere accordingly — to picture-galleries, 
to all the sights of the place, and even now and then upon country 
excursions, in the bright, cold winter days. “ The beys,” as Kate 
called them, came and went all day long, bringing new^s of every- 
thing that was to be seen or heaid, always with a new plan or sug- 
gestion for the morrow. 

The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten 
always under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath 
from outside which only ” the boys ” can bri ug. Soon Mrs. Ander- 
son, and even Ombra herself, adopted that affectionate phrase — to 
throw another delightful, half* delusive veil over all possibilities 
that might be in the future. It gave a certain ” family feeling,*' 
a mutual right to serve and be served; and at times Mrs. Anderson 
felt as if she could persuade herself that ” the boys, ’ w^ho were so 
full. of that kindly and tender gallantry which young men can pay 
to a woman old enough to be their mother, were in reality her own 
as much as the girls were— if not sons, nephews at the least. Sho 
said this to herself, by way, 1 tear, of excusing herself^ and placing 
little pleasant shields of pretense betw^een her and the reality. To 
be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left the young 
people alone together; hut, as she said, at whatever cost to her- 
self,’" bore them company in all their rambles. But 3'^et sometimes 
a recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an un- 
comfortable wa3^ And sometimes a still more painful chill would 
seize her when she thought of Kate^ who was thus throwm con- 
stantly into the society of the Berties. Kate treated them with the 
Easiest friendliness, and they were sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson be- 


OMBRA. 


221 


lieved) brotherly to her. But, still, they were all young; and who 
could tell what fancies the girl- might lake into hei head? Theso 
two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the lite was happy 
and bright; and Ombra was happ 3 ^ Her cloud of temper had 
passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanislied 
into the air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life — 
more loving and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a summer 
day, though the Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room 
was cold as San Lorenzo; but all was warm, harmonious, joyous 
within. 

Kale for one never troubled her head to ask why. She ac- 
cepted the delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was 
perfectly simple to her that her cousin should get well— that the 
cloud should disperse. In her thoughtlessness she did not even 
attribute this to any special cause, contenting herself with the hap- 
py fact that so it was. 

“ How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!” she 
said, with genuine pleasure to lier aunt. 

‘‘ Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ” It 
is the Italian air— it works like a charm.” 

”1 don't think it is the air,” said Kate— ” privately, auntie, 1 
think the Italian air is dreadfully chilly— at least, when one is out 
of the sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun 
is an excellent thing, and having something to do — Now, don't 
say no, please, for I am quite sure of it. 1 feel so much happier, 
too.” 

“What makes yrm happier, my darling?” said Mrs. Anderson,, 
with a very anixons look. 

“ OhI 1 don't know— everything,” said Kate; and she gave her 
aunt a kiss, and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head 
with the pretty action of the girls whom she saw every day cairy- 
ing water from the fountain. 

Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her 
mind, and gave her a great deal of thought. Was it only fun and 
occupation, as the girl said?— or was there something else unknown 
to Kale dawning in her heart, and making her life bright, all un- 
consciously to herself? “ They are both as brothers to her,” Mrs, 
Anderson said to herself, with pain and fear; and then she repeated 
to herself how good they were, what true gentlemen, how incapa- 
ble of any pretense which could deceive even so innocent a girl as 
Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness increased every 
day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another should 


222 


OMBRA. 


not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishin^j 
afiection and cai esses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s 
interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what 
could she do? The happiness ot her own child was involved; she 
was bound hand and toot by her love lor Ombra. “ Then.” she 
would say to herself, “ Kate is getting no haim-. She is eighteen 
past — quite old enough to be ‘ out ’ — indeed, it would be wrong of 
me to deny her what pleasure 1 can, and it is not as if 1 look her 
Avherever we were asked. 1 am sure, so far as 1 am concerned. 1 
should have liked much better to gc to the Morrises — nice, pleasant 
people, not too grand to make friends cf — but 1 refused, for Kate’s 
sake. She shall go nowhere but in the 've7y best society. Her uncle 
liimself could not do better for her than Lady Granton or Lady 
Caryisfort— most likely not half so well; and he will be hard to 
please indeed if he is discontented with that,” Mrs. Anderson said 
10 herself. But notwithstanding all these suecioiis pleadings at 
that secret bur, where she was at once judge ami advocate and 
culprit, she did not succeed in obtaining a favorable verdict; all 
she could do was to put the thought away from her by limes, and 
persuade herself that no harm could ensue. 

“ Look at Ombra now,” Kate said, on the same afternoon to Fran- 
cesca, whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her 
conversation with Ler aunt had brought the subject to her mind, 
and a little Curiosity about it had awakened within her when she 
thought it over. “ Bee what change of air has done, as 1 told you 
it vrould — and change of scene.” 

“ Mees Katta,” said Francesen, “ change of air is very good — 1 
say nothing against that — but, as 1 have remarked on other occa- 
sions, one must not form one’s opinions on ze surface. Made- 
moiselle Ombra has changed ze mind,'' 

“ Oh! yes, 1 know you said she must do that, and 3 mu nether go 
back from what you once said; but, Francesca, 1 don’t understand 
you in the least. How has she changed her mind?” 

“ If mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her- 
self,” said Francesca, “not one poor servant, as has no way to 
know.” 

“ Oh,” cried Kate, flushing scarlet, “ w’hen ^mu are so humble 
there is am end ot everything— 1 know that much by this lime. 
There! 1 will ask Ombra herself; 1 will not have you make me 
out to he uuderhand. Ombra, come here one moment, please. 1 am 
so glad you are better; it makes me happy to see you look like your 
old self; but tell me one thing— my aunt says it is the change of 


OMBRA. 


223 


air, anii 1 say it is change of scene, and plenty to do. Kow, tell me 
which it is — 1 want to know.” 

Ombra bad been passing the open doer; she came and stood in 
the door- way, with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting 
evanescent color had come upon her pale cheek, and there was now 
always a dewy look ot feeling in her eyes, which made them 
beauiitul. She stood and smiled, in the soft superiority of her 
elder age upon the girl who questioned her. Her color deepened 
a little; her eyes looked as if there was dew in them, ready to falL 
** 1 am better,” she said, in a voice which seemed to Kate to be 
full of combined and harmonious notes — ” 1 am better without 
knowing why — 1 suppose because God is so good.” 

And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had 
been humming to herself, in the lightness ot her heart, as her 
cousin called her. Kale was struck with violent shame and self- 
disgust. ” Oh, how wicked 1 am!” she said, rushing to her own 
room and shutting herself in. And there she had a short but re- 
freshing cry, though she w^as by no means given to tears. She had 
been brought up piously, to be sure— going to church, attending to 
her ” religious duties,” as a well-brought-up young woman ought 
to do. But it had net occurred to her to give auy such visional y 
reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred sec- 
ondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more 
than met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had 
been so good? Kale was very reverential of this new and unan- 
sw^erable cause for her cousin’s restoration. But how was it?— 
there was still something which she did not fashion beyond. 

Such pleasant days these were! When ” the bojs ” came to pay 
their greetings in the morning, ” Where shall we go to-ilay?” was 
the usual question. They went to the pictures two or three days 
in the week, seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found 
anywhere— from the great galleries, where all was light and order, 
to the little out-of-the-way churc hes, which hid, in the darkness 
of their heart of hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, 
carefully veiled from the common public. And, in the intervals, 
they would wander through the streets, learning the very houses by 
luart; gazing into the shop windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung- 
Arno; at the turquoises and pearls, which then made the Ponte 
Vecchio x soft blaze ot color, blue and white; at I ire curiosity shops, 
and those hung about with copies in which Titian was done inta 
weakness, and Haphael to imbecility. Every bit of Florence was 
paced over by these English feet, one pair of which were often very 


224 : 


OMBEA. 


tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most fre- 
qviently “the boys’' returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. An- 
derson, who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a 
steady-going English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with 
Lady Caryisfort to the Caserne, the Berties came to the carriage- 
windows to tell them all that was going on; to bring them bouquets; 
to point out every new face. When they went to the theater or 
opera in the evening, again the same indefatigable escort accom- 
panied and made everything smooth for them. When they had in- 
vitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the party. When they 
stayed at home the young men, even when not invited, would al- 
ways manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in 
pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at 
home. “After all, this is the best,” the young hypocrites would 
say; "and one of them would read while the ladies worked; or there 
would be “a little music,” in which Ombra was the chief per- 
forncer. Thus, from the beginning of the day to the end, they 
were scarcely separated, except for intervals„which gave freshness 
«ver renewed to their meeting. It was like “ a family party;” so 
Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in a day. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“ Come and tell me about yourself, Kate,” said Lady Caryisfort, 
from her sofa. IShe had a cold, and was half an invalid. She had 
kept Kate with her while the others went out, after paying their 
call. Lady Caryisfort had enveloped her choice of Kate in the 
prettiest" excuses, “ 1 wish one of you girls would give up the sun- 
shine, and stay and keep me company,” she had said. “ Let me 
see—no, 1 will not choose Ombra, tor Ombra has need of all the 
air that is to be had; but Kate is strong — an afteinoon’s seclusion 
will net make any difference to her. Spare me Kate, please, Mrs. 
Anderson. 1 want some one to talk to — 1 want something pleasant 
to look at. Let her stay and dine with me, and in the evening 1 
will send her home.” 

So it had been settled; and Kate was in the great, somewhat dim 
drawing-room, which was Lady CaryisferCs abode. The house 
was one of the great palazzi in one of the less-known streets of 
Florence. It was on the sunny side, but long ago the sun had re- 
treated behind the high houses opposite. Tlie great lofty palace 
itself was like a mountain-side, nnd half-way down this mountain 


OMBEA. 


225 


side came the tall windows, draped with dark velvet and white 
muslin, which looked out into the deep ravine^ called a street, be- 
low. The rocm was very large and lofty, and had openings on twc 
sides, enveloped In heavy velvet curtains, into two rooms beyond. 
The two other side walls tvere covered with large frescoes, almost 
invisible in this premature Iwilighty for it was not late, and the 
top rooms in the palace, which were inhabited by Cesare, the mo- 
saic-worker, still retained the sunshine. All the decorations were 
of a grandiose character; the velvet hangings w^ere dark, though 
warm in color; a cheerful wood fire threw gleams of variable reflec- 
tion here and there into the tall mirrors; and Lady Caryisfort, 
wu'apped in a huge soft, white shawl, which looked like lace, but 
was Shetland wool, lay on a sofa under one of the frescoes. As 
the light varied, there would appear now a head, now an uplifted 
arm, out of the historical composition above. 1 he old world was all 
about iu the old walls, in the waning light, in the grand propor- 
tions of the place; but the dainty lady in her shawl, the dainty ta- 
ble with its pretty tea-service, which stood wdtliiu reach of her 
hand, and Kate, whose bloom not even the twilight could obliter- 
ate, belonged not to the cld, but to the new. There was a low, 
round chair, a kind of luxurious shell, covered with the w'arm, 
daik velvet, on the other side of the little table^ 

“ Come and sit down beside me here,'' said Lady Caryisfort, 
“ and tell me all abcut yourself." 

“There is not very much to tell," said Kate, “ if you mean 
facts; but it it is 7ne you want to know about, then there is a little 
more. 'Which would you like best?" 

“ 1 thought you were a fact." 

“ 1 suppose X am," said Kate, with a laugh. “ 1 never thought 
of that. Hut then, of course, between tbe facts that have hap- 
pened to me, and this fact, Kate Courtenay, there is a good deal of 
dilierence. Which would you like best? Me? But, then, where 
must 1 begin?" 

“As early as you can remember," said the inquisitor; “and, 
■recollect, I should most likely have sought you out, and known all 
about you Icng before this, if you had stayed at Langton— so you 
may be perfectly frank with me." 

To tell the truth, all the little scene had been got up ou purpose 
for Ibis conticiential talk; tbe apparently chance choice of Kate as 
a companion, and even Lady Caryisfort’s cold, were means to an 
«nd. l^ate was of her own county, she was of her own class, she 
was thrown into a position which Lady Caryisfoit thought was not 


OMBKA. 


226 

the one she ought to have filled, and with all the fervcr of a lively 
fancy and benevolent meaning she had thrown herself into ihis lit- 
tle ambush. The last words were just as near a mistake as it was 
possible for words to be, for Kate had no notion of being anything 
but frank, and the little assurance that she might be so safely, al • 
most put her on her guard. 

“You would not have been allowed to seek me out,'' said Kate. 
“ Uncle Courtenay had made up his mind 1 was to know nobody 
— 1 am sure 1 don’t know why. He used to send me a new gov- 
erness every year. It was the greatest chance that 1 was allowed to 
keep even Karyanne. He thought servants ought to be changed; 
and 1 am afraid,” said Kate, with humility, “ that 1 was not at all 
nice when 1 was at home.” 

“My poor child!— 1 don't believe you were ever anything but 
nice.” 

“ No,” said Kate, taking huld of the caressing hand which was 
laid on her arm; “you can't think how disagreeable 1 was, till 1 
was fifteen; then my dear aunt my— good aunt, whom you don’t 
like so much as you might—” 

“ How do you knoJv that, you little witch?” 

“Ob! 1 know very well. She came home to England, after 
being years away, and she wrote to my uncle, asking if she migtit 
see me, and he was horribly worried with me at the time,” said 
Kate. “ 1 had worried him so that he could not eat his dinner 
even in peace — and Uncle Courtenay likes his dinner— so he wrote 
and said she might have me altogether, if she pleased, and though 
he gave the very worst account of me, and said all the harm he 
could, auntie started ofi[ directly, andAook me home.” 

“ That was kind of her, Kate.” 

“ Kind of her!— oh! it was a great deal more than kind. Fancy 
how I felt when she cried and kissed me! 1 am not sure that any- 
body had ever kissed me before, and 1 was such a stupid— such a 
thing without a soul — that 1 was quite astonished when she cried. 

1 actually asked her why. Whenever 1 think of it, 1 feel my cheeks 
grow crimson.” And here Kate, with a pretty geslure, laid one of 
Lady Caryisfort’s soft rose-tipped fingers upon her burning cheek. 

“ Your poor, dear child! Well, 1 understand why Mrs. Ander- 
son cried, and it was nice of her; but aprh” said Kate’s con- 
fessor. 

“ Apres? 1 was at home— 1 was as happy as the day was long. 

1 got to be like other girls ; they never paid any attention to me, 
and they petted me from morning to night ” 


OMBKA. 


227 


** But ho^ could that he?” said Lady Caryisfort, whose under- 
standing tvas not quite equal to the strain thus put upon it. 

” 1 foigot all about myself after that,” said Kale. ” 1 was just 
like other girls. Ombra thought me rather a bore at first; but, 
fortunately, 1 never found that out till she had got over it. She 
had always been auntie’s only child, and 1 think she was a trifle — 
jealous; 1 have an idea,” said Kate—” but how wicked 1 am to go 
and talk of Omhra’s faults to you!” 

” Never mind; 1 shall never repeat anything you tell me,” said 
Ihe confidante. 

” Well, 1 think, if she has a weakness, it is that perhaps she likes 
to be first. 1 don’t mean in any vulgar way,” said Kate, suddenly 
flushing red as she saw a smile on her companion’s face. ” but with 
people she loves. She would not like (naturally) to see her mother 
love any one else as much as her; or even she would not like to see 
me— ’ 

” And how about other people?” cried Lady Caryisfort, amused. 

” About other people 1 do not know what to say; 1 don’t think 
she hrfe ever been tried,” said Kate, with a grave and puzzled look. 

” She has always been first, without any question— or, at least, 
so 1 thinri; bu«t that is puzzling— that is more difficult. 1 would 
lather not go into that question; for, by the bye, this is all about 
Ombra— it is net about me.” 

“That is true,” said Lady Caiyisfort; “we must change the 
subject, for 1 don’t want you to tell me your cousin’s secrets, 
Kate.” 

” Secrets’— she has not any,” said Kate, with a laugh. 

” Are you quite sure of that?” 

” Sure of Ombra!— of course 1 must be. If^l were not quite 
sine of Ombra, whom could 1 believe in? There are no secrets,” 
said Kate, with a little pride, ” among us.” 

” Poor child!” thought Ladfr Caryisfort to herself; but she said 
nothing, though after a while she asked gently, ” Were you glad to 
come abroad? 1 suppose it was your guardian’s wish?” 

Once mere Kate laughed. 

” That is the funniest thing of all,” she said. ” He cance to pay 
us a visit; and fancy he, who never could bear me to have a single 
companion, arrived precisely on my birthday, when we were much 
gayer than usual, and had a croquet party! It was as good as a 
play to see his face. But he made my aunt promise to take us 
abroad.* 1 suppose he thought w’e could make no friends abroad.” 

” But in that he has evidently been mistaken, Kate.” 


OMBKA. 


328 

, “ 1 don’t know. Except yourself, Lfrdy Caryisfort, what friends 
have we made? You have been very kind, and as niceas it is 
possible to be—” 

“ Thanks, dear. The benefit has been mine,” said Lady Caryis-^ 
fort in an undertone. 

” But we don’t call Lady Gianlon a friend,” continued Kate— “■ 
nor the people who have left cards and sent us invitations, since they 
met us there. And until we came to Florence we had not met you.’^ 

‘‘ But then there arc these two young men— Mr. Eldridge and 
Mr. Hardwick.” 

“Oh! the Bellies,” said Kate; and she laughed. “ They don’t 
count, surely; they are old friends. We did not require to com.e 
to Italy to make acquaintance with them.” 

“ Perhaps you came to Italy to avoid them?” said Lady Caryis- 
fort, drawing her bow at a venture. 

Kate looked her suddenly in the face, with a start; but the after- 
noon had gradually grown darker, and neither could make out 
what was in the other’s face. 

“"Why should we come to Italy to avoid them?” said Kate^ 
gravefy. 

Her new seriousness quite changed the tone of her voice. She 
was thinking of Ombra and all the mysterious things that had hap- 
pened that summer day after the yachting. It was more than a 
year ago, and she had almost forgotten; but somehow, Kate could 
not tell how, the Berties had been woven in with the family exist- 
ence ever since. 

Lady Caryisfort gave her gravity a totally different meaning., 
“ So that is how it is,” she said to herself. 

“ If 1 were yqu, Kate,” she said aloud, “ 1 would write and tell 
my guardian all about it, and who the people are whom you are- 
acquainted with here. 1 think he has a right to know. Would 
he be quite pleased that the Berties, as you call them, should be 
with you so much? Pardon me if 1 say more than 1 ought.” 

“The Berties!” said Kale, now fairly puzzled. “ What has 
Uncle Courtenay to do with the Berties? He is not Ombra’s guard- 
ian, but only mine; and they have nothing to do with me.” 

“Oh! perhaps 1 am mistaken,” said Lady Caryisfort; and she 
changed the subject dexterously, leading Kate altogether away 
from this toe decided suggestion. They talked afterward of every- 
thing in earth and heaven; but at the end of that little dinner, 
which they ate tete-a-tete, Kale returned to the subject which in 
the meantime had been occupying a great part of her thoughts. 


OMBEA 


229 


“ 1 have been thinkiug of what yon said about Uncle Courte- 
nay/’ she said quite abruptly after a pause. “ 1 do Write to him 
about once every month, and 1 always tell him whom we are see- 
ing. 1 don’t believe he ever reads my letters. He is always pay- 
ing visits through the winter when Parliament is up, and 1 always 
diiect to him at home. 1 don’t suppose he ever reads them. But 
that, of course, is not my fault, and whenever we meet any one new 
1 tell him. We don’t conceal anything; my aunt never permits 
that.” 

” And 1 am sure it is your own feeling too,” cried Lady Caryis- 
fort. ” It is always best.” 

And she dismissed the subject, not feeling herself possessed ot 
sufficient information to enter into it more fully. She- was a little 
shaken in her own theory on the subject of the Berties, one of 
whom at least she felt convinced must have designs on Kate’s foit- 
une— that was “ only natural;” but at least Kate was not aware of 
it. And Lady Caryisfori was half aunoyed and half pleased when 
one of her friends asked admittance in the evening, bringing with 
her the young Count Buoncompagni, whom Kate Had met at the 
Embassy. It was a Countess Strozzi, an aunt of his, and an inti- 
mate of Lady Caryisfort’s who was his introducer. There was 
nothing to be said agains{ the admission of a good young man who 
had come to escort his aunt in her visit to her invalid friend, but 
it was odd that they should have chosen that particular night, and 
no other. K ate was in her morning dress, as she had gone to make 
a morning call, and was a little troubled to be so discovered; but 
girls look well in anything, as Lady Caryisfort said to herself with 
a sigh. 

CHAPTER XLll. 

It was about this time, about tW'O months after their arrival in 
Florence, and when the bright and pleasant ‘‘ family life ” we have 
been describing had gone on for about six weeks in unbroken 
harmony, that there began to breathe ahcut Kate, like a vague, fit- 
ful wind, such as sometimes rises in autumn or, spring, one can’t 
tell how or from whence, a curious sense of isolation, of being 
somehow left out and put aside in the family party. For some 
time the sensation was quite indefinite. She felt chilled by it, she 
could not tell how. Then she would hud herself sitting alone in 
a corner, while the others were grouped togethei, without being 
able to explain to herself how it happened. It had happened sev- 
eral times, indeed, before she thought ot attempting to explain so 


230 


OMBKA. 


Strange an occurrence; and then she said to herself that ot course 
It was mere chance, or that she herself must have been sulky, and 
nobody else was aware. 

A day or two, however, after her visit to Lady Caryisfort, there 
came a little incident which could not be quite chance. In the 
evening Mrs. Anderson sat down by lier, and began to talk about 
indifterent subjects, with a little ait ot constraint upon her, the 
air of one who has something not quite pleasant to say. Kate’s 
faculties had been quickened by the change which she had already 
perceived, and she saw that something was coming, and was 
chafed by this preface, as only a very frank and open nature can 
be. She longed to say, “ Tell me what il is, and be d(>ne with it.” 
I5ul she had no excuse for such an outcry. Mrs. Anderson only 
introduced her real subject after at least an hour’s talk. 

‘‘ By the bye,” she said— and Kate knew in a moment that now 
it was coming — ” we have an invitation for to morrow, dear, which 
1 wish to accept, tor Ombra and myself, but 1 don’t feel warranted 
In taking you— and, at the same time, 1 don’t like the idea of leav- 
ing you.” 

‘‘ Oh! pray don’t think Qf me, aunt,” said Kate, quickly. A flush 
of evanescent anger at this mode of making it known, suddenly 
came over her. But, in reality, she was half stunned, and could 
mot believe her ears. It made her vague sense of desertion into 
something tangible at once. 11 realized all her vague feelings of 
being one too many. But, at the same time, it stupefied her. She 
could not understand it. She did not look up, but listened with 
eyes cast down, and a pain which she did not understand in her 
lieart. 

“ But 1 must think of you, my darling,” said Mrs. Anderson, in 
a voice whiph, at this moment, rang false and insincere in the girl’s 
ears, and seemed to do her a positive harm. “ How is it possible 
tnat 1 should not think of ymu? It is an old friend of mine, a iner- 
clianl from Leghorn, who has bought a place in the- country about 
ten miles from Florence. He is a man who has risen from nothing, 
and so is his wife, but they are kind people all the same, and used 
to be good to me when 1 was poor. Lad}^ Barker is going— for she, 
loo, you know, is of my old set at Leghorn, and though she has 
risen in the world, she does not throw oft people w'ho are rich. 
But 1 don’t think 3mur uncle would like it, if I took you there. 
You know how very careful 1 have been never to introduce you to 
anybody he could find fault with. 1 have declined a great many 
pleasant invitations here, for that very reason.” 


OMBKA. 


23 '{ 

\ 

“Oh! please, aimt, don’t think of doing so any more,” cried 
Kate, stung lo the heart. “ Don’t deprive yourself of anything tnat 
is pleasant for me. 1 am very well. 1 am quite happy. 1 don’t 
require anything more than 1 have here. Go, and take Ombra, and 
never mind me.” 

And the poor child had great ditSculty in refraining from tearSi 
Indeed, but for the fact that it would have looked like crying for a 
lost pleasure, which Rate, who was stung by a very difterent feel- 
ing, despised, she would not have been able to restrain herself. As 
it was, her voice trembled, and her cheeks burned. 

“• Kate, 1 don’t think you are quite just to me,” said Mrs. Andei^- 
son. “ You know very well that neither in love, nor in anything^ 
else, have 1 made a difference between Ombra and you. But in 
this one thing 1 must throw myself upon your generosity, dear. 
When I say your generosity, Kate, 1 mean that you should put the 
best interpretation on what I say, not the worst.” 

“ 1 did not mean to put any inteipretation,” said Kate, drawn 
two ways, and ashamed now of her anger. “Why should you 
explain to me, auntie, or make a business of it? Say you are going 
somewhere to-morrow, and you think it best i should not go. That 
is enough. Why should ycu say a word moie?” 

“ Because 1 wanted to treat you like a woman, not like a child,, 
and to tell you the reason,” said Mrs. Anderson. “ But tve will 
say no more about it, as those boys are coming. 1 do hope, how- 
ever, that you understand me, Kate.” 

Kate could make no answer, as “the boys” appeared at this 
moment; but she said to herself sadly, “ No, 1 den’t understand— 1 
can’t tell what it means,” with a confused pain which was very 
hard to bear. It was the first time she had been shaken in' her per- 
fect faith in the two people who had brought her to life, as she 
said. She did not rush into the middle of the talk, as had once 
been her practice, but sat, chilled, in her corner, wondering what 
had come over her. For it was not only that the others w'ere 
changed— a change had come upon herself also. She was chilled; 
she could not tell how. Instead of taking the initiative, as she 
used to do in the gay and Crank freshness which everybody had be- 
lieved tD be the very essence of her character, she sat still, and 
waited to be called, to be appealed to. Even when she became 
herself conscious of this, and tried to shake it off, she could not 
succeed. She was bound as in chains; she could not get free. 

And when the next morning came, and Kate, with a dull amaze 
which she could not overcome, saw the party go off with the usual 


232 OMBKA. 

/ 

escort, the only dillerence being that Lady Barker occupied her 
own usual place, her feelings were not to be described. She 
watched them from the balcony while they got into the carriage, 
nnd arranged themselves gayly. She looked down upon them and 
laughed too, and bade tbem enjoy themselves. She met the wist- 
ful look in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes with a smile, and, recovering her 
courage for the moment, made it understood that she meant to pass 
an extremely pleasant day hy herself. But when they diove away, 
Kate went in, and covered her eyes with her hands. It was not 
the pleasure, whatever that might be; but why was she left be- 
hind? What had she done, that they wanted her no longer! that 
they found her in the way? It was the first slight she had ever 
had to bear, and it went to her very heart. 

It was a lovely bright morning in December. Lovely mornings 
in December are rare in England; but even in England there 
comes now and then a winter day which is a delight and luxury, 
when the sky is bluer, crisper, profounder than in summer, wdien the 
sun is resplendent, pouring over everything the most lavish and 
overwhelming light; when the atmosphere is still as old age is 
when it is beautiful — stilled, chastened, subdued with no possibil- 
ity ot i^neasy winds or movement of life; but all quietness, and 
new and then one last leaf fluttering down from the uppermost 
boughs. Such a morning in Florence is divine. The great old 
houses stand up, expanding, as it were, erecting their old heads 
gratefully into the sun and blueness of the sphere; the old towers 
rise, poising themselves, light as birds, yet strong as giants, in that 
magical atmosphere. The sun-loveis throng to the bright side of 
the way, and bask and grow warm and glad. And in the distance 
the circling hills stand round about the plain, and smile from all 
their heights m fellow-feeling with the warmed and comfortedAvorld 
below. One little girl, left alone in a sunny room on the Lung- 
Arno in such a morning with nothing but her half -abandoned tasks 
to amuse her, nobody to speak to, nothing to think ot but a vague 
wrong dene to heiself, which she does not undeistand, is not in a 
cheeitul position, though everything about her is so cheerful; and 
Kate’s heart sunk down— down to her very slippers. 

“ 1 don’t understand why you shouldn’t come,” said some cne, 
bursting in suddenly. “Oh! 1 beg your pardon; 1 did not mean 
lo be so abrupt.” 

Eor Kate had been crying. She dashed away her tears with an 
indignant hand, and looked at Berlie witji defiance. Then the 
natural reaction came to her assistance. He looked so scared and 


OMBRA. 


233 


emtarrassed standing there, with his hat in his hand, breathless 
with haste, and full of compunction. She laughed in spite of her- 
seU. 

“ J am not so ashamed as if it had been any one else,” she said. 
“ You have seen me cry before. Oh! it is not for the expedition: 
it is only because 1 thought they did not want me, that was all.” 

” 1 wanted you,” said Bertie, still breathless, and under his 
breath. 

Kate looked up wondering, and suddenly met his eye, and they 
both blushed crimson. T7hy? She laughed to shake it oft, feel- 
ing, somehow, a pleasanter feeling about her heart. 

‘‘It was very kind of you,” she said; ‘but, you know, yon 
don’t count; you are only one of the boys. You have come back, 
for something?” 

‘‘ Yes, Lady Barker’s bag, with her fan and her gloves, and her 
eau-de-Cologne.” 

‘‘Oh! Lafly Barker’s. There it is, 1 suppose. 1 hate Lady Bar- 
ker!” cried Kate. 

‘‘ And so do I; and to see her in your place—” 

” Kever mind*about that. Go away, please, or you will be late;: 
and 1 hope you will have a pleasant day, all the same. ” 

‘‘ INot without you,” said Bertie, and he look her hand, and for 
one moment seemed doubtful what to do whh it. 'lAhat was he 
going to do with it? The thought flashed through Kale's mind 
with a certain amusement ; but he thought better of the matter, 
and did nothing. He dropped her hand, blushing violently again,, 
and then turned and fled, leaving her consoled and amused, and in 
a totally changed condition. What did he mean to do with the hand 
he had taken? Kate held it up and looked at it carefully, and 
laughed till the tears came to her eyes. He had meant to kiss it,, 
she felt sure, and Kate had never yet had her hand kissed by mor- 
tal man; but he had thought better of it. It was ” like Bertie.” 
iShe was sc much amused that her vexation went altogether out of 
her mind. 

And in the afterncon Lady Caryislort called and took her out. 
When she beard the narrative of Kate’s loneliness, Lady Caryisfort 
nodded her head approvingly, and said it was very nice of Mrs. 
Anderson, and quite what ought to have been. Upon which Kate 
became ashamed cf hex self, and was convinced that she was the 
most ungrateful and guilty of girls. 

A distinction must be made,” said Lady Caryisfort, ” especial- 


03IBKA. 


234 

ly as it is now known who you aie. For Miss Anderson it is quite 
different, and her mother, of course, must not neglect her interests. 

“ How funnjr that any one's interests should be affected by an 
invitation!’' said Kate, with one of those unintentional revelations 
of her sense of her own greatness which were so amusing to her 
friends. And Count Buoncompagni cam 3 to her side of the car- 
T'age when they got to the Cascine. It was entirely under Lady 
Oaryistort’s wing that their acquaintance had been formed, and 
nobody, accordingly, could have a word to say against it. Though 
«he could n()t quite get Bertie (as she said) out of her head after the 
incident of the moining, the young Italian was still a very pleasant 
companion. He talked well, and told her about the people as none 
of the English could do. There is Koscopanni, who was the first 
out in ’48,” he said. “ He was nearly killed atlNovara. But per- 
haps you do not care to hear about oui patriots?” 

"‘Oh! but 1 do,” cued Kate, glowing into enthusiasm; and 
Count Antonio was nothing loath to be her instructor. He con- 
fessed that he himself had been out,” as Fergus Maclvor, had he 
survived it, might have confessed to the '45. Kate had her little 
prejudices, like all English girls— her feeling o^the inferiority ol 
“foreigners,” and their insincerity and theatrical emotionalness; 
but Count Antonio took her imagination by storm. He was hand- 
some; he had the sonorous masculine voice which suits Italian best, 
and does most justice to its melodious splendor; yet lie did not 
speak much Italian, but only a little now and then, to give her 
courage to speak it. Even t rench, hcwever, which was their gen 
eral medium of cooimunication, was an exercise to Kate, who had 
little practice in any language but her own. Then he told her 
about his own family, and that they were poor, with a frankness 
which went to Kate’s heait; and she told him, as best she could, 
about Francesca, and how she had heard the history of the Buon- 
compagni— “ before ever 1 saw you,” Kale said, stretching the faqt 
a little. 

Thus the young man was emboldened to propose tc Lady Caryis- 
"lort a visit to his old palace and its faded glories. There were 
some pictures he thought that ces dames would like to look at. 

“ Still some pictures, though not much else,” he said ending off 
with a bit of English, and a shrug of his shoulders, and a laugh at 
bis own poverty; and an appointment was made before the carriage 
•drove off. 

“ Ihe Italians are not ashamed of being pool,” said Kate^ with 
animation as they went home. 


OMBRA. 


235 


“ If they were, they might as well give in at once, for they are 
all poor/’ said Lady Caryisfort, with British coutemp:. But Kate, 
who was rich, thought all the more of the noble young Piorenline, 
with his old palace and his pictures. And then he had been 
“out.’’ 


CHAPIBR XLllI. 

Kate took it upon herself to make unusual preparations for the 
supper ou that particular evening. She decorated the table ^ilh 
her cwn hands, and coaxed Francesca to the purchase of various 
dainties beyond the ordinary. 

“ They will be tired; they will want something when they come 
back,'* she said. 

“ Mademoiselle is very good; it is angelic to be so kind after 
what has passed— after the affair of the ra Dining," said Brancesca, 
** If 1 had been in mademoiselle’s place, 1 do not think 1 should 
have been able to show so much education. For my pait, it has 
yet to be explained to me how my lady could gc to amuse herself 
and leave Mees Katta alone here." 

" B'rancesca, don't talk nonsense," said Kate. ‘‘ 1 ^uite approve 
what my aunt did. She is always right, whatever any one may 
think." 

"It is veiy likely, Mees Katta," said Francesca; "but 1 shall 
know ze why, or 1 will not be happy. It is not like my lady. She 
is no besser than a slave with her Ombra. But 1 shall know ze 
why— I shall know ze reason why I" 

" Then don’t tell me, please, for 1 don’t wish to be cross again, 
said Kate, continuing her preparations. " Only 1 do hope they 
won’t bring L&dy Barker with them," she added to herself. Lady 
Barker was the scape-goat upon whom Kate spent her wrath. She 
forgave the other, but her she had made up her mind not to for- 
give. It was night when the party came home. Kate rushed to 
the balcony to see them arrive, and looked on without, however, 
making her presence known. There was but lamplight this time, 
but enough to shew how Ombra sprung out of the carriage, and 
how thoroughly the air of a successful expedition hung about tho 
party. " Well!" said Kate to herself, " and 1 have had a pleasant 
day, too." She ran to the door to welcome them, but, perhaps, 
made her appearance inopportunely. Ombra was coming upstairs 
hand in hand with some one— it was not like her usual gravity — 
and when the pair saw the door open they separated, and came up 


236 


OMBRA. 


the remaining steps each alone. This was odd, and startled Kate. 
Then, when she asked, “ Have you had a pleasant day?’' some one 
answeied, “ The most delightful day that ever was!” with an en- 
thusiasm that wounded her feelings— she could not tell wh 3 \ Was 
it indeed Bertie Hardwick who said that? — he who had spoken so 
differently in the morning? Kate stood aghast, and asked no more 
questions. She would have let the two pass her, but Ombra put 
an arm round her waist, and drew her in. 

” Oh, Kale, listen, 1 am so happy!” said Ombra, whispering in 
lier Sar. ” Don’t be vexed about anything, dear; you shall know 
it all aflerward. 1 am so happy!” 

This was said in the little dark anteroom, where there were no 
lights, and Kate could only give her cousin a hasty kiss before she 
danced away. Bertie, for his part, in the dark, too, said nothing 
at all. He did not explain the phrase— “ The most delightful day 
that ever was!” ‘‘ Well!” said poor Kate to herself, gulping down 
a little discomfort—” well! 1 have had a pleasant day, too.” 

And then what a gay supper it was!— gayer than usual; gayer 
than she had ever known it! She did not feel as if she were quite 
in the secret of their merriment. They had been together all day, 
while she had been alone; they had all the jokes ot the morning to 
carry on, and a hundred allusions which fell fiat upon Kate. She 
had been put on her generosity, it was irue, and would not, for the 
world, have shown how much below the general tone of hilarity 
she was; but she was not in the secret, and very soon she f elt ready 
to flag. When she put in her experiences of the day, a momentary 
polite attention was given, but everybody’s mind was elsewhere. 
Mis. Andersen had a balf-f lightened, half -puzzled look, and now 
and then turned affecting glances upon Kate; but Ombra was 
radiant. K'ever bad she looked so beautiful; her eyes shone like 
two stars; liei faint rose-color went and came; her face was lit 
with soft smiles and happiness. All soils ot fancies crossed Kate’s 
mind. She looked at the young men, who were both in joyous 
spirits— but either her discrimination failed her, or her. eyes were 
I dim, or her understanding clouded. Altogether Kate was in a 
maze, and did not know what to do or think; they stayed till it 
was very late, and both Ombra and her mother went to close and 
lock the door after them when they went away, leaving Kate once 

I more alone. She sat still at a corner of the table, and listened to 

i the voices and laughter still at the door. Bertie Hardwick’s voice, 

], she thought, was the one she heard most. They were all so happy, 

\ and she only listening to it, not knowing what it meant! Ihen, 


OMBEA. 


237 


when the door was finally locked, Mrs. Anderson came back to her 
alone. “ Oinbra has gone !o bed,” she said. “ She is tired, though 
she has enjoyed it so veiy much. And, my dear child, you must 
50 to bed, too. It is too late for you I 0 be up.” 

“ But you have had a very pleasant day?” 

“ They have— oh, yes I” said Mrs. Anderson, ” the young ones 
Jiave been very happy; but it has not been a pleasant day to me. 1 
have so many anxieties; and then to think of you by yourself at 
iiome.” 

”1 was not by myself,” said Kate. “Lady Caryisfort called 
tiud took me out.” 

‘‘ Ah I Lady Caryisfort is very kind,” said Mrs. Anderson, with 
■a tone, however, in which there was neither delight nor gratitude; 
and then she put her arm rourid her niece, and leaned upon her. 
“Ah!” she said again, “ 1 can see hew it will be! They will wean 
you away from me. You, who have never given me a moment’s 
uneasiness, who have been such a good child to me! 1 suppose it 
must he so — and 1 ought not to complain.” 

“ But, auntie,” said Kate, bewildered, “ nobody tries to take me 
irem you — nobody wants me, that 1 know of — even you—” 

“Yes,” said Mrs, Anderson, “even I. 1 know. And 1 shall 
have to put up with that, too. Oh! Kate, 1 know more than one 
of us will live to regret this day— but nobody so much as I.” 

“i don’t understand you. Auntie, you are overtired. You 
ought to be asleep.” 

“ Vou will understand me some time,” 'said Mrs. Anderson, 

and then you will recollect what 1 said. But don’t ask me any 
questions, dear. Good-night.” 

Good-night! She had been just as happy as any of the party, 

Kate reflected, half an hour before, and her voice had been audible 
fiom the door, full of pleasantness and the melody of content. Was 
the change a Action, got up for her own benefit, or was there some- 
thing mysterious lying under it all? Kate could not tell, but it 
may be supposed how heart-sick and weary she was when such an | 
idea as that her dearest friend had put on a semblance to deceive 
her, could have entered her mind. ^he was rery, very much ij 

ashamed of it, when she woke in the middle of the night, and it all j 

came back to her. But what was she to think? It was the first Ji 
mystery Kate had encountered, and she did not know how to deal j,j 
with It. It made her very uneasy and unhappy, and shook her || 
faith in everything. She lay awake for half an hour pondering it; ]| 
and that was as much to Kate as a week of sleepless nights would || 

' <3 

I'i 


238 


' OMBRA. 


have been (o many, tor up to this time she had no need to wake o' 
nights, nor anything to weight upon her thoughts when she woke. 

JSext morning, however, dissipated these mists, as morning does 
so otten. Ombra was very gay and bright, and much more affec- 
tionate and caressing than usual. Kate and she, indeed, seemed to 
have changed places— the shadow had turned into sunshine. It 
was Ombra who led the talk, who rippled over into laughter, who 
petted her cousin and her mother, and was the soul of everything. 
All Kate’s doubts and difficulties fled before the unaccustomed 
tenderness of Ombra’s looks and words. She had no defense 
against this unexpected means of subjugation, and for some time 
she even forgot that no explanation at all was given to her of the 
events of the previous day. It had been “ a pleasant day,” ‘‘ a de- 
lightful day,” “the walk had been perfect,” “and everything 
else,” Ombra had said at breakfast, “ except that you were not with 
us, Kate.” 

“ And that we could net help,” said Mrs. Anderson, into whose 
face a shade of anxiety had crept. But she was not as she had been 
in that mysterious moment on the previous night. There was no 
distress about her. She had nearly as much happiness in her eyes 
as that which ran over and overflowed in Omhra’s. Had Kate 
dreamed that last five minutes, and its perplexing appearances? 
But Mrs. Anderson made no explanations, any more than Ombra. 
They chatted aoout the day's entertainment, their hosts, and many 
things which Kate could only half understand, but they did not 
say, “Wo aie so happ.^ because of this or that.” Through all 
this affectionateness and tenderness this one blank remained, and 
Kate could not forget it. They told her nothing. Bhe was left iso- 
lated, separated, outside of some magic circle in which they stood. 

The young men joined them very early, earlier even than usual; 
and then this sense of separation became stronger and stronger in 
Kate's mind. Would they never have done talking of yesterday? 

^ The only thing that refreshed her spirit a little was when she an- 



Kate said, feeling a little conscious, and pleasantly so, that she 
I herself was, in this case, certainly to be the principal figure— to 
I visit the Buoncompagni Palace. Bertie Hardwick roused up imme- 
I diately at the mention of this. 

I “Palace, indeed 1” he said. “It is a miserable old house, all 
I mildewed and moth-eaten! What should we do there?” 

:| “1 am going, at least,” said Kate, with Lady Caryisfort. 

Count Buoncompagni said there were some nice pictures; andl 


OMBRA. 


239 


like old houses, though you may not be of my opinion. Auntie, 
you will come?’' 

“ Miss Courtenay’s taste is peculiar,” said Bertie. *‘ One knows 
what an old palace, belonging to an irhpoverished family, means in 
Italy. It means moldy hangings, horrible old frescoes, furniture 
(and very little of that; crumbling to pieces, and nothing in good 
condition but the coat of arms. Buoncompagni is quite a type of 
the class — a young, idle, do-nothing fellow, as noDle as you like, 
aud as poor ns Job; good for leading a cotillon, and for nothing 
else in this world; and living in his moldy old palace, like a snail 
in its shell.” 

I don’t think you need to be so severe.” said Kate, with flash- 
ing eyes. ” If he is poor, it is not his fault; and he is not ashamed 
of it, as some people are. And, indeed, 1 don’t think you joung 
men work so very hard yourselves as to give you a right to speak.” 

This was a blow most innocently given, but it went a great deal 
deeper than Kate had supposed. Bertie’s countenance became 
orimson; be was speechless; he could make no reply; and, like 
every man whose conscience is guilty, he felt sure that she meant 
it, and had given him this blow on purpose. It was a strange 
quarter to be assailed from; but yet, what else could it mean? He 
sat silent, and bit his nails, and remembered Mr. Sugden, and asked 
himself how it was that such strange critics had been moved against 
him. We have said that this episode was refreshing to Kate; but 
not so were tiie somewhat anxious arrangements which followed on 
Mrs. Anderson’s part, for carrying out Kate’s plan, which would 
be delightful.” 

” 1 always like going ever an old palace,” she said, with a cer- 
tain eagerness; ‘‘ and if you gentlemen have not done it already, 1 
am sure it will be worth your while.” ^ 

But there was very little response from any one; and in a few^ 
minutes more the interruption seemed to be forgotten, and they had 
all resumed their discussion of the everlasting hisloiy of the pre- 
vious day. Once more Kate felt her isolation, and after awhile she 
escaped silently from the room. She did not trust nerself to go to 
her own chamber, but retired to the chilly dining-room, aud sat 
down alone over her Italian, feeling rather desolate. She tried to 
inspiie herself with the idea of putting the Italian into practice, 
and by the recollection ot Count Antonio’s pietty compliments to 
lier on the little speeches she ventured to make in answer to his 
questions. 1 must try not to make any mistakes this time,’' she 
said to herself; but after five minutes she stopped, and began thinks 


240 


OMBRA. 


ing. With a conscious efiort she tried to direct her mind to the 
encounter of yesterday— to Lady Caryisfoil and Count Buoncoiii- 
pagni; but somehow other figures would always intrude; and a 
dozen times at least she roused up sharply, as from a dream, ahd 
found herself asking again, and yet again, what had happened yes- 
terday? Was it something important enough to justify conceal- 
ment? Was it possible, whatever it xvas, that it could be concealed 
from lievf What was it? Alas! poor Count Antonio was but the 
ghost whom she tried to think of; while these were the real ob- 
_ jects that interested her. And all the time the party remained in 
the drawing room, not once going out. She could hear their voices 
_ now and then, when a door was opened. They stayed in-doors all 
the morning— a thing which had never happened before. They 
stayed to luncheon. In the afternoon they all went out walking 
together; but even that was not as ct old. A change had come 
over everything— the world itself seemed different; and what was 
worst of ail, was that this change was pleasant to all the rest, and 
melancholy only to Kate. She said to herself, wistfully, “ 
doubt 1 would be pleased as well as the rest, if only I knew.’' 


i CHAPTER XLIV. 

For the next few days everything was merry as marriage-bells 
and though Kate felt even the fondness and double consideration with 
which she was treated when she was alone with her aunt and cousin 
to belong somehow to the mystery, she had no excuse even to her- 
self for finding fault with it. They were very good to her. Um- 
bra, at least, had never been so kind, so tender, so anxious to please 
her. Why should she be anxious to please her? She had never 
done so before; it bad never been necessary; it was a reversal of 
everything that was natural; and, like all the rest, it meant some- 
thing underneath, something which had to be made up for by these 
superficial caresses. Kate did not go so far as this in her articulate 
thoughts; but it was what she meant in the confused and painful 
musings which now so often possessed her. But she could not 
remonstrate, or say, “ Why are you so unnecessarily, unusually 
tender? What wrong ha ^-e you done me that has to be made up for 
in this way?” She could not say this, however mu-ch she might 
feel it. She had to hide her wonder amf dissatisfaction in her own 
heart. 

w At last the day came for the visit to the Buoncompagni Palace. 


OMBEA. 


241 


TUey weie to walk lo Laay Caryisfort’s, to join her, and all had 
been arranged on the previous night. The ladies were waitings 
cloaked and bonneted, when Bertie Eldridge made his appearance 
alone. 

“1 hope 1 have not kept you waiting,” he said: “ that ridicu- 
lous cousin of mine won’t come. 1 don’t know what has come 
over him; he has taken some absurd dislike to poor Buoncom- 
pagni, who is the best fellow in the world. 1 hope you will accept 
my company alone.” 

Ombra had been the first to advance to meet him, and he stood 
still holding her hand while lie made his explanation. She dropped 
it, however, with an air of disappointment and annoyance. 

“ Bertie will not come wlien be knows that 1— that we are wait- 
ing for him! What a strange thing to do! Bertie, who is always 
so good; how very annoying— when he knew we depended on him!” 

” 1 told him so,” said the other—” I told him what you would 
say; but nothing had any effect. 1 don't know what has come to 
Bertie of late. He is not as he used to be; he has begun to talk 
of work, and all sorts of nonsense. But to-day he will not come, 
and there is nothing more to be said. It is humbling tor me to see 
how 1 suffer without him; but 1 hope you will try to put up with 
me by myself for one day.” 

“Oh! 1 can not think what Bertie means by it. It is too pro- 
voking!”' said Ombra, with a clouded countenance; and when they 
got into the street, their usual order of march was reversed, and 
Ombra fell behind with Kate, whose mind was full of a very 
strange jumble of feeling, such as she could not explain to herself. 
On ordinary occasions one or other of the Berties was always in 
attendance on Ombra. To-day she indicated, in the most decided 
manner, that she did not want the one who remained. He had to 
walk with Mrs. Anderson, while the two girls followed together. 
” 1 never knew anything so provoking,” Ombia continued, taking 
Kate’s arm. ” It is as it he had done it on purpose— to-day, too, 
of all days in the world!” 

” What is particular about to-day?” said Kate, who, to tell the 
truih, was at this moment less in sympathy with Ombra than she 
bad ever been tefore. 

“Oil! to-day— why, there is— w^ell,” said Ombra, pausing sud- 
denly, ” of course there is nothing particular about to-day. But he 
must have known how it would put us out— how it would spoil 
everything. A little party like ours is quite changed when one is 


OMBEA. 


'242 

left out. You ought ro see that as well as 1 do. It spoils every- 
body's pleasure. It changes the feeling altogether." 

“ 1 don’t think it does so always," said Kate; but she was gener- 
ous even at this moment, when a very great call was made on her 
generosity. " 1 never heard you call Mr. Hardwick Bertie before," 
she added, not quite generous enough to pass this over without re- 
mark. 

" To himself, you mean," said Umbra, with a slight blush. ‘‘We 
have always called them the Berties among ourselves. But I think 
it is very ridiculous for people who see so much ot each other to go 
on saying Mr. and Miss. " 

" Do they call you Umbra, then?" said Kate, lifting her eye- 
brows.% Poor childl she had been much if secretly exasperated, 
and it was not in flesh and blood to avoid giving a mild momentary 
prick in r^urn. 

" 1 did not say so," said Umbra. . " Kate, you, too, are contra- 
dictory and uncomfortable to-day; when you see how much 1 am 
put out — " 

" But 1 don’t see why you should be so much put out," said 
Kate, in an undertone, as they reached Lady Caiyisfort’s door. 

What did it mean? This little incident plunged her into a sea of 
thougfits. Up to this moment she had supposed Bertie Eldridge to 
be her cousin’s favorite, and had acquiesced in that arrangement. 
Somehcw she did not like this so well. Kate had ceased for a long 
time to call Bertie Hardwick " my Bertie," as she had once done 
so frankly; but still she could not quite divest herself of the idea 
that he w^as more her owm property than any one else’s— her oldest 
friend, whom she had known before any of them. And he had 
been so Kind the other morning, when the others bad deserted her. 
It gave her a strange, dull, uncomfortable sensation to find him 
thus appropriated by her cousin. " 1 ought not to mind— it can be 
nothing to me," she said to herself; but nevertheless she did not 
like it. She was glad when they came to Lady Caryisfort’s door, 
and her iete-d tete with Umbra was over; and it was even agreeable 
to htr wounded amour propre when Count Antonio came to her 
side, beaming with smiles and self-congratulations at having some- 
thing to show her He kept by Lady Caryisfoit as they went on 
to the palazzo, which was close by, with the strictest Italian pro- 
priety; but when they bad entered bis own bouse, the young count 
did not hesitate to show that his chief motive was Kate. He 
shrugged his shoulders as he led them in through the gieat door- 
way into the court, which was full of myrtles and greenness. 


OMBKA. 


243 


There was a fountain in the center, which trickled shrilly in the air 
just touched with trost, and oleanders planted in great vases nlong 
a terrace with a low balustiade of marble. The tall house towered 
above, with ail its multitudinous windows twinkling in the sum 
There was a handsome loggia, or balcony, over the terrace on the 
first floor, it was there that the sunshine dwelt the longest, and 
there it was still warm, notwithstanding the frost. This balcony 
had been partially roofed in with glass, and theie were some chairs 
placed in it, and a small white covered table. 

“ This is the best of my old house,’' said Count Antonio, lead- 
ing them in, hat in hand, with the sun shining cn his black hair. 
“ Such as it is, it is at the service of ces dames ; but its poor mas- 
ter must beg them to be very indulgent— to make great allowances 
for age and poverty.” And then he turned and caught Kate’s eye, 
and bowed to the ground, and said, ** Sla padrona with the 
pretty extravagance of Italian politeness, with a smile for the 
others, but with a look for herself which made her heart flutUrv 
” Sia padrona—con^idiex yourself the mistress (»t everything ’ 
words which meant nothing at all, and yet might mean so muchl 
And Kate, poor child, was wounded and felt herself neglected. 
She was left out by others —banished from the love and confidence 
that were her due — her very rights invaded. It soothed her to teel 
that the young Italian, in himself as romantic a figure as heart 
could desire, who had been ” out ” for his country, whose pedigree 
ran back to ISloah, and perhaps a g^od deal further, was laying his 
half-ruined old house and his noble history at her feet. And the 
signs of poverty, which were not to te concealed, and which Count 
Antonio made no attempt to conceal, went to Kate’s heart, and 
conciliated her. She began to look at him, smiling over the wreck 
of greatness, with respect as well as interest ; and when he pointed 
to a great empty space in one of the noble rooms, Kate’s heart 
melted altogether: 

” There was our Raphael — the picture he painted for i^s. That 
went off in ’48, when my father fitted out the few men who were 
cut to pieces with him at Kovara. J remember crying my eyes out,, 
half for our Madonna, half because 1 was too small to go with 
him. Kevare mind ”(Ue said this in English — it Was one of his lit- 
tle accomplishments of which he was proud). ” The country is all 
the better; but no other picture shall ever hang in that place— that 
we have sworn, my mother and 1.” 

Kate stood and gazed up at the vacant place with an enthusiasm 
which perhaps the picture itself would scarcely have called from- 


^44 


OMBRA. 


her. Her eyes grew big and luminous, “ each about to have a tear/* 
Scmething came into her throat which prevented her Irom speak- 
ing; she heard a little flutter of comments, but she could not be- 
tray the emotion she felt by trying to add tc them. “ Oh!" she 
«aid to herself with that consciousness of her wealth which was at 
times a pleasure to her— “ oh! if 1 could find that Madonna, and 
buy it and send it back!" And then other thoughts involuntarily 
Tusbed after that one— fancies, gleams of imagination, enough to 
cover her face with blushes. Antonio turned back when the party 
Went on, and found her still looking up at the vacant place. 

“ It is a sad blank, is it not?" he said. 

‘ It is the most beautiful thing in all the house," said Kate; and 
one of the tears fell as she looked at him, a big blob of dew upon 
her glove. She looked at it in consternation, blushing crimson, 
ashamed of herself. 

Antonio did what any young Italian would have done under the 
circumstances. Undismayed by the presence of an audience, he 
put one knee to the ground, and touched the spot upon Kate’s little 
gloved thumb with his lips; while she stood in agonies of shame, 
not knowing what to do. 

“ The signorina’s tear was for Italy," he said, as he rose; ” and 
there is not an Italian living who would not thank her for it on his 
knees." 

He was perfectly seiioua, without the least sense that there could 
be anything ridiculous cr embarrassing in the situation; but it may 
be imagined what was the efl;ect upon the English party, all with a 
natural horror of a scene. 

Lady Caiyisfort, 1 am sorry to say, showed herself the most ill- 
bred upon this occasion— she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, 
but could not altogether restrain the very slightest of giggles. 
Ombra opened her eyes, and looked at her mother; while poor Kate, 
trembiing,^horrified, and overwhelmed with shame, shrunk behind 
Mrs. Anderson. 

It was not my fault," she gasped. 

" Don’t think anything of it, my love," whispered Mrs. Ander- 
son, in consolation; ’* They mean nothing by it — it is the com- 
monest thing in the world." A piece of consolation which was 
not, however, quite so consolatory as it was intended to be. 

But she kept her niece by herself after this incident as long as it 
was practicable; and so it came about that the party divided into 
three. Lady Caryisfort Antonio went first, Mrs. Andersen and 
Kate next, and Ombra and Bertie Eldridge last of all. As Kate 


OMBRA. 


245 


moved gradually on, she heard that a very close and low-toned con- 
versation was going on behind her; and Ombra did not now seem 
so much annoyed by Bertie Hardwick’s absence as she had been a 
little while ago. Was she— an aw4ul revelation seemed to burst 
upon Kate— was Ombra a coquette? She dismissed the thought 
from her mind as fast as possible; but after feeling so uncomfort- 
able about her cousin’s sudden interest in Bertie, she could not help 
feeling now a certain pity for him, as if he^loo, like herself, were 
slighted now. Not so would Kale herself have treated any one. 
It was not in her, she said to herself, to take up and cast down, to 
play with any sentiment, whether friendship or anything ^else; anil 
in Per heart she condemned Ombra, though secretly she was not 
«orry. She was a coquetle— that was the explanation. She liked 
to have both the j^oung men at her feet, without apparently caring 
much for either. This was a sad accusation to bring against Om- 
hra, but somehow Kate felt more kindly disposed toward her after 
she had struck this idea out. 

When they reached the loggia^ the table was found to be covered 
with an elegant little breakfast, which reminded Kate of the pretty 
meals to be seen in a theater, which form part of so many pretty 
comedies. It was warm in the sunshine, and there was a scaldinay 
placed, Italian fashion, under the table, for the benefit of the chilly; 
and an old man, in a faded livery, served the repast, which he had 
not cooked, solely because it had been ordered from an hotel, to 
poor old Girolamo’s tribulation. But his master had told him the 
reason why, and the old servant had allowed that the expenditure 
might be a wise one. Kate found, to her surprise, that she was the 
special object of the old man’s attention. He ran ofi with a whole* 
string of “ Che! che's,” when he had identified her, which he did 
by consultation of his master’s eye. “ Bella signorina, this is from 
the old Buoncompagni vineyards,” he said, as he served to her some 
old wine; and, wdth another confidential movement, touched her 
arm when he handed her the fruit. ” From the gardens, signorina 
mia,” he whispered; and the honey ‘‘from Count Antonio’s own 
bees up on the mountains;” and, ” Cara signorina mia, this the 
contessa’s own hands prepared for those beautiful lips,” he said, 
with the presei\es. He hung about her; he had eyes for no one 
else. 

‘‘ What is the old man saying to you, Kate?” said her aunt. 

” Nothing,” answered Kale, half amused and half distressed; 
and she met Count Antonio’s eye, and they both blushed, to the 
admiration of the beholders. 


246 


OMBRA. 


This was how the visit terminated. Old Girolamo followed them 
obsequiously down the great staircase, bowing, with his hand upon 
his breast, and his eyes upon the young English lady, who was as 
rich as the Queen of Sheba, and as beautiful as the Holy Mother 
herself. And Rate’s heart beat with all the little magic flutter of 
possibilities that seemed to gather round her. It her heart had been 
really touched, she would not have divined what it all meant so 
readily; but it was onlj her imagination that was touched, and she 
saw all that was meant. It was the first time that she had seen a 
man pose himself before hei in the attitude of love, and (though 
no doubt it is wrong to admit it) the thing pleased her. She was 
not anxious, as she ought to have been, to preserve Antonio’s peace 
of mind. She was flattered, amused, somewhat touched. That 
was what he meant. And for herself, she was not unwilling to 
breathe this delicate incense, and be, as other women, wot>ed and 
worshined. Her ideas went no further. Up to this moment it was 
somewhat consolatory, and gave her something pleasant to think 
of. Poor old Girolamo! Poor old palace! She liked their master 
ail the better tor their sake. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

In the few weeks that followed it happened that Kate was thrown, 
very much into the society of Lady Caryisfort. It would have 
been difficult to tell why; and not one of the party could have ex- 
plained how it was that Ombra and her mother were always en- 
gaged, or tired, or had headaches, when Lady Ca^'yisfort called on 
her way to -the Cascine. But so it happened; and gradually Kate 
passed into the hands of her new friend. Often she remained with 
her after the drive, and went with her to the theater, or spent the 
evening with her at home. And though Mrs. Anderson sometimes 
made a melancholy little speech on the subject, and half upbraided 
Kate for this transference of her society, she never made any real 
efloit to withstand it, but. really encouraged— as her niece felt 
somewhat bitterly — a friendship which removed Kate out of the 
way. as she had resolved not to take her into her confidence. Kate 
was but half happy in this strange severance, bur, it was better to 
be away, better to be smiled upon and caressed by Lady Caryds- 
fort, than to feel herself one too many, to be left out of the inner- 
most circle at home. 

And the n\ore she went to the Via Maggio, the more she saw of 
Count Buoncompagni. Had it been in any other house than her 


OMBRA. 


247 


cwn that Kate had encounered this young, agreeable, attractive, 
honest forliine-himter, Lady Caryisfort would have been excited 
and indignant. But he was habitue of her own house, an old 
friend of her own, as well as the relation of her dearest and most 
intimate Italian friend, and she wms too indolent to disturb her own 
mind and habits by the effoit of sending him away. 

“ Besi^des, why should 1? Kate can not have some onedo go be- 
fore ner to sweep all the young men out of her path,” she said, 
with some amusement at her own idea. “ She must take her chance, 
like everybody else; and he must lake his chance.” By way of 
setting her conscience at rest, however, she w^arued them both. She 
said to Count Antonio seriously, 

New, don’t flirt with my young lady. You know 1 dislike it. 
And 1 am responsible for her safety when she is with me; and you 
must not put any nonsense into her head.” 

** JVliladi’s commands are my law,” said Antenio, meaning to 
take his own way. And Lady Caryisfort said lightly to Kate, 

Don’t you forget, dear, that all Italians are fertune-hunters. 
Never believe a word these young men say. They don’t even pre- 
tend to think it disgraceful, as we do. And, unfortunately, it is 
known that you are an heiress.” 

All this did not make Kate happier. It undermined gradually 
her confidence in the world, which had seemed all so smiling and 
so kind. She had thought herself loved, where now slm found her- 
self thrust aside. She had thought herself an important member 
ot a party which it was evident could go on without her; and the 
girl was humbled and downcast. And now to be warned not to 
believe what was said to her, to consider all those pleasant faces as 
smiling, not upon herself, but upon her fortune. It would be diffi- 
cult to describe in words how depressed she was. And Antonio 
Buoncompagni, though she had been thus warned against him, had 
an honest face. He looked like the hero in an opera, and sung like 
the same; but there was an honest simplicity about his face, which 
made it very hard to doubt him. He was a child still in his inno- 
cenf ways, though he was a man of the woild, and doubtless knew 
a great deal of both good and (vil which was unknown to Kate. 
But she saw the simplicity, and she was pleased, in spite of herself, 
with the constant devotion he showed to her. How could she but 
like it? She was wounded by other people’s neglect, and he was 
so kind, so amiable, so good to her. She was pleased to see him 
by her side, glad to feel that he preferred to ^ome; not like those 
who had known her all her life, and yet did not care. ' 


248 


OMBEA. 


Bo eveiything went on merrily, and already old Countess Buon- 
compagni had heard oi it at tl\e villa, and meditated a visit to 
Florence, to see the English girl^who was going to build up the 
old house once more. And even, which was most wondeiful of 
all, a sense that she might have tc do it— that it was her fate, not to 
be strutted against — an idea half pleasant, half terrible, sometimes 
stole across the mind even of Kate herself. 

Lady Caryisfort received more or less every evening, but most on 
the Ihursdays; and one of these evenings the subject was brought 
before her too distinctly to be avoided. Thai great, warm-cojored,. 
dark drawing-room, with the frescoes, looked better when it waa 
full of people than when its mistress was alone in it. There were 
quantities of waxlights everywhere, enough to neutralize the ruby 
gloom of the velvet curtains, and light up the brown depths of the 
old frescoes, with the faces locking out of them. All the mirrors, 
as well as the room itself, were full of people in pretty dresses,, 
seated in groups or standing about, and there were flowers and 
lights everywhere. Lady Caryisfort herself inhabited her favorite 
sofa near the fire, underneath that great fresco; she had a little 
group round her as she always had; but something rather unusual 
had occurred. Among all the young men who worshiped and 
served this pretty woman, who treated them as boys and professed 
not to want them — and the gay young women, who were her com- 
panions— there had penetrated one British matron, with that devo- 
tion td. her duties, that absolute virtuousness and inclination ta 
point out their duty to others, which sometimes distinguishes that 
excellent member of society. Bhe had been putting Lady Caryis- 
fort through a catechism of all her doings and intentions, and then 
as ill-luck would have it, her eye lighted upon pretty Kate, with 
the young man who was the very count of romance — the primo 
tenore ; the jeune premier ^ whom any one could identify at a 
glance. 

“ Ah, 1 suppose 1 shall soon have to congratulate you on that/* 
shje said, nodding her head with airy grace in the direction where 
Kate was, “ for you are a relation of Miss Courtenay’s, are^you 
not? 1 hope the match will be as satisfactory for the lady as for 
the gentleman — as it must be indeed, when it is of your making, 
dear Lady Caryisfort. What a handsome couple they will make!'* 

“ Of my making!” said Lady Caryisfort. And the crisis was so 
terrible i hat there was a pause all round her— a pause such as might 
occur in Olympus before Jove thiew^ cne of his thunder-bolts. All 
who knew her, knew what a horrible accusation this was. ” A 


OMBEA. 


249 


match— of my making!” sbR repeated. “Don’t you know that 1 
discourage marriages among my friends? 1— to make a match! — 
who hate them, and the very nathe of them!” 

“ Oh, dear Lady Oarjisfort, you are so amusing! To hear you 
tsay that, with such a serious look! What an actress you would 
have made!” 

“ Actress,” said Lady Caryisfort, “ and match- maker! You do 
not compliment me; but 1 am not acting just how. I never made 
a match in my life — I hate to see matches made! 1 discourage 
them; 1 throw cold water upon them. Matches!— if there is a 
thing in the world 1 hale — ” 

“ But 1 mean a 'nice match, of course; a thing most desirable; 
a marriage such as those, you know,” cried the British niatron, 
with enthusiasm, “ which are made in heaven.” 

“ 1 don’t believe in anything of the kind,” said the mistress of 
the house, who liked to shock her audience now and then, 

“ Oh, dear Lady Caryisfort!” 

“Ido not believe in anything of the kind. Marriages are the 
greatest nuisance possible; they have to be, 1 suppose, but 1 hate 
them; they break up society; they disturb family peace; they spoil 
friendship; they make four people wretched for every two w'^hom 
they pretend to make happy!”’ 

“ Lady Caryisfort— Lady Caryisfort! with all these young peo- 
ple about!” 

“ 1 don’t think what 1 say will harm the young people; and, be- 
sides, everybody know^s my feelings on this subject 1 a match- 
maker! why, it is my horror! 1 begin to vituperate in spite of 
m 3 ^self. 1— throw away my friends in such a foolish way! The 
moment you marry you are lost — I mean to me. Do you hear, 
young people? Such of you as were married before 1 knew 3 "ou 1 
can put up wdth. 1 have accepted 3 mu in the lump, as it were. 
But, good heavens! fancy me depriving m 3 ’self of that child who 
comes and puts her pretty arms round m 3 ^ neck and tells me all 
her secrets! If she were mariied to-morrow she would be prim 
and dignified, and probably would tell me that her John did not 
<iuite approve of me. No, no, 1 will have none of that.” 

“ Lady Caryisfort is always sublime on this subject,” said one 
of her court. 

“ Am 1 sublinceV 1 say what 1 feel,” said Lady Caryisfort, lan- 
guidly leaning back upon her cushions. “ When 1 give my bene- 
diction to a marriage, 1 say, at the same time, hon jour. I don’t 
want to be surrounded by my equals. 1 like inferiors — beings who 


250 


OMBKA. 


look up to me; so please let nobody call me a match-maker, it ist 
the only opprobrious epithet which I will not put up with. Call 
me anything else— 1 can bear it — but not that.’' 

“Ah! dear Lady Caryistort, are not you doing wrong to a 
woman’s best instincts?” said her inquisitor, shaking her head, 
with a sigh. 

Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders. 

“■Will some one- please to give me myshawl?” she said; and 
half a dozen pairs ot hands immediately snatched at it. “ Thanks; 
don’t marry — I like you best as you are,” she said, with a careless 
liitle nod at her subjects before she turned round to plunge into a 
conversation with Countess Btrozzi, who did not understand En- 
glish. The 'British matron was deeply scandalized; she poured out 
her indignant feelings to two or three people in the room before 
she withdrew, and next day she wrote a letter to a friend in Eng- 
land, asking it it was known that the great heiress. Miss Courte- 
nay, was on the eye of being married to an Italian nobleman — “ or^ 
at least, he calls himself Count Somebody; though, of course, one 
never believes what these foreigners tell one,” she w^rote. “ If you. 
should happen to meet Mr. Courtenay, you might just mention 
this, in case he should not know how tar things had gone.” 

Thus, all unawares, the cloud arose in the sky, and the storm 
prepared itself. Christmas had passed, and Count Antonio felt 
that it was almost time to speak. He was very grateful to Provi- 
dence and the saints for the success which had attended him. Per- 
haps, after all, his mother’s prayers in the little church at the villa, 
and those perpetual nomnas with which she had somewhat vexed 
his young soul when she was with him in Florence, had been in- 
strumental in bringing about this result. The Madonna, who, 
good to eyery one, is always specially good to an only sou, had no 
doubt led into his very arms this wealth, wdiich would save the 
house. Bo Antonio thought quite devoutly, wjthout an idea In his 
good-natured soul that theie was anything ignoble in his pursuit or 
in his gratitude. Without money he dared not have dreamed ot 
marrying, and Kate was not one whom he could have ventured to 
tall in love with apart from the necessity of marriage. But he ad- 
mired her immensely, and was grateful to her tor all the advantages 
she vras going to bring him. He even felt himself in love with 
her, w^hen she looked up at him with her English radiance of 
bloom, singling him out in the midst of so many who would have . 
been proud of her favor. There w^as not a thought in the young, 
Italian’s heart which w^as not good, and tender, and pleasant to- 


OMBKA. 


251 


ward his heiress. He would have been most kind and affectionate 
to her, had she married him, and would have loved hei honestly, 
had she chosen tc love him; but he was not impassioned —and at 
the present moment it was to Antonio a most saiistactory, delight- 
ful, successlul enterprise, which could bring nothing but good, 
lather than a love-suit, in which his hean and happiness were en- 
gaged. 

However, things were settling steadity this way when Christmas 
came. Already Count Antonio had made up his mind to begin 
operations by speaking to Lady Caryistort on the subject, and Kate 
had telt vaguely that she would have to choose between the posi- 
tion of a great lady in England on her own land, and that of a 
great lady in beautiful Florence. The last was not without its at- 
tractions, and Antonio was so kind, while other people were so in- 
difterent. Poor Kate was not as happy as she looked. More and 
more it became apparent to her that something was going on at 
home which was carefully concealed trom her. They eren made 
new friends, whom she did not know — one of whom, in particular, 
a young clergyman, a friend of the Berties, stared at her now and 
then from a corner of the drawing-room in the Lung-Urno, with 
a curiosity which she fully shared. “Ob! he is a friend of Mi. 
Hardwick’s; he is here only for a week or two; he is- going- on to 
Pome for the Carnival,” Mrs. Anderson said, without apparently 
perceiving what an evidence Kate’s ignurance was df the way in 
which their lives had fallen apart. And the Deities now weie con- 
tinually in the house. They seemed to have no other engagements, 
except when, now and then, they went to the opera with (he ladies. 
Sometimes Kate thought one or the other of them showed signs of 
uneasiness, but Ombra was bright as the day, and Mrs. Anderson 
made no explanation. And how could she, the youngest of the 
household, the one who was not wanted— how could she interfere 
or say anything? The wound worked deeper and deeper, and a 
certain weariness and distrust crept over Kate. Oh, for some 
change!— even Antonio’s proposal, which was coming. For as it 
was only her ilnagination and her vanity, not her heart, which were 
interested, Kate saw with perfect clear-sightedness that the pro- 
posal was on its way. 

But before it arrived— before any change had come to the state 
of affairs in the Lung-Arno — one evening, when Kate was at home, 
and, as usual, abstracted over a book in a corner; when the Berties 
were in full possession, one bending over Ombra at the piano, one 
talking earnestly to her mother, Francesca suddenly threw the door 


252 


OMBKA, 


open, with a vehemence quite unusual to her, and withoat a word 
of warning— without even the announcement of his name to put 
them on their guard— Mr. Courtenay walked into the room. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

The scene which Mr. Courtenay saw when ho walked in sudden- 
ly to Mrs. Anderson’s di a wing-room, was one so different in every 
way from what he had expected, that he Was tor the first moment 
as much taken aback as any of the company. Francesca, who re- 
membered him well, and whose mind was moved by immediate 
anxiety at the sigfit of him, had not been able to restrain a start 
and exclamation, and had ushered him in suspiciously, wi!h so 
evident a feeling of alarm and confusion that the suspicious old 
man of the world felt doubly convinced that there was scmetliing 
to conceal. But she had neither time nor opportunity to warn the 
party; and yet this was how^ Mr. Courtenay found them. The 
drawing-room, which looked out on the Luug-Arno, was not smalt, 
but it was rather low— not much more than an entresol. There 
was a bright wood fire on the hearth, and near it, with a couple of 
candles on a small table by her side, sat Kate, distinctly isolate d 
from the rest, and working diligently, scarcely raising her eyes 
from her needle-wcrk. The center table was drawn a little aside, 
for Ombra had found it loo warm in front of the fire; and about 
this the other four w'ere grouped^Mrs. Anderson, woiking, too, 
was talking lo one of the young men; the other was holding silk, 
which Umbra was winding; a thorough English domestic party — 
such a family group as should have gladdened virtuous eyes to see. 
Mr. Courtenay looked at it with indescribable surprise. There 
was nothing visible here w’hich in the least resembled a foreign 
count; and Kate Was, wonderful to tell, left out — clearly left out. 
She was sitting apart at her little table near the fire, looking just a 
little weary and forlorn— a very little — not enough to catch Mrs. 
Anderson’s eye, who had got used to this aspect of Kate. But it 
struck Mr. Courtenay, who w^as not used to it, ^d who had sus- 
pected something very different. He was sc completely amazed, 
that he could not think it real. That little old woman must have 
g'wen some signal; they must have been warned of his coming- 
otherwise it w^as altogether impossible to account for this extraordL 
nary scene. They all jumped to their feet at his appearance. 
There was first a glance of confusion and embarrassment ex- 
changed, as he saw; and then every one rose in their wonder. 


OMBEA. 


253 ^ 

“Mr. Courtenayi VVhat a great, what a veiy unexpected—” 
said Mrs. Anderson. Slie had meant to say pleasure; but even she 
was so much startled and contounded that she could not carry her 
intention out. 

“Is it Uncle Courtenay?” said Kate, rising, too. She was not 
alarmed— on the contrary, she looked halt glad, as it the sight of 
him was rather a. relief than otherwise. “ Is it you, Uncle Courte- 
nay? Have you come to see us? 1 am very glad. But 1 wonder 
you did not write.” 

“1 hanks tor your welcome, Kate. Thanks, Mrs. Anderson, 
Don’t let me disturb you. 1 made up my mind quite suddenly. 
1 had not thought ot it a week ago. Ah! some more acquaintances 
whom 1 did not expect to see.” 

Mr. Courtenay was very gracious— he shook hands all round. 
The Berties shrunk, no one could have quite told how — they looked 
at each other, exchanging a glance full of dismay and mutual con- 
sultation. Mr. Courtenay’s faculties were all on the alert; but he 
had been thinking only of his niece, and the young men puzzled 
him. They were not near Kate, they were not “paying her at- 
tention;” but, then, what were they doing here? He was not so- 
imaginative nor so quick in his perceptions as to he able to shift 
from the difficulty he had mastered to this new one. What he 
had expected was a foreign adventurer making love to his niecej 
and instead of that here were two young Englishmen, not even 
looking at his niece. He was posed; but ever suspicious. For 
the moment they had baffled him, hut he would find it oul, what- 
ever they meant, whatever they might be concealing from him; 
and with that view he accepted the great arm-chair I5landly, and 
sat dowm to make his observations with the most smiling and in- 
gratiating face. 

“ Ave are taking care of Kate— she is a kind ot invalid, as yon 
will see,” said Mrs. Anderson. “ It is not bad, 1 am glad to say, 
but she has a cold, and 1 have kept her in-doors, and even con- 
demned her to the fireside corner, which she thinks very hard.” 

“It looks very comfortable,” said Mr. Courtenay. “So yon 
have a cold, Kate? I hear you have been enjoying yourself very 
much, making troops ot friends. But pray don't let me disturb 
any one. Don’t let me break up the party-” 

“ It is time for us to keep our engagement,” said Bertie Hard- 
wick, who had taken cut his watch. “ It is a bore to have to go, 
just as there is a chance of hearing news of home; but 1 hope we 


254 


OMBKA. 


shall see Mr. Courtenay again. We must go now. It is actually 
nine o’clock.” 

“ Yes. 1 (lid not think it was nearly so lale,” said his cousin, 
echoing him. And they hurried away, leaving Mr. Courtenay 
more puzzled than ever. He had put them to flight, it was evi- 
dent— but why? For personally he had no dread of them, nor ob- 
jeclion to them, and they had not been taking any notice of Kate. 

“ 1 have disurbed your evening, 1 fear,” he said to Mrs. Ander- 
son, ” She was annoyed and uncomfortable, though he coulii not 
tell the reason why. 

“ Oh! no, not the least. These boys have been in Florence for 
■some little time, and they often ccme in to enliven us a little in the 
evenings. But they have a great many engagements. They can 
never stay very long,” she said, faltering and stammering, as it 
she did not quite know what she was saying. But for this Kate 
would have broken out into aroused remonstrance. Can never 
stay very long! Why, they stayed generally till midnight, or near 
it. These words were on Kate’s lips, but she held them back, 
partly tor her aunt’s sake, partly — she could not tell why. Om- 
bra, overcast in a moment from all her brightness, sat behind, 
drawing her chair back, and began to arrange and put away the 
silk she had been winding. It shone in the lamplight, vivid and 
warm in its rich color. What a curious little picture this made 
-altogether! Kale, startled and curious, in her seat by the fire; 
Mrs. Anderson, watchful, not knowing what was going to happen, 
keeping all her wits about her, occupied the central place; and 
Ombra sat half hidden Dehind Mr. Courtenay’s chair, a shadowy 
figure, witli the lamplight just catching her white hands, and the long 
crimson thread of the silk. In a moment everything had changed. 
It might have been Shanklin again, from the aspect of the party. 
A little chill seemed to seize them all, though the room was so 
light and warm. Why was it? Was it a mere reminiscence of his 
former visit which had brought such change to their lives? He 
was uncomfortable, and even embarrassed, himself, though he 
could not have told why. 

“ So Kate has a cold!” he repeated. ” From what 1 heard, 1 
supposed you were living a very gay life, with troops of friends. 

1 did not expect to find such a charming domestic party. But you 
are (^uitc at home here, 1 suppose, and know the customs of the 
place— all aboirt it? How sorry 1 am that your young friends 
should have gone away because of me.” 

” Oh! pray don’t think of it. It was not because of you. They 


OMBKA. 


255 


had an engagement,” said Mrs. Anderson. “ Yes, 1 have lived in 
Florence before, but that was in very different days, when we were 
not let! such domestic quiet in the evenings,” she added, elevating 
her head a little, yet sighing. She did net choose Mr. Courtenay,, 
at least, to think that it was only her position as Kate’s chaperou 
which gave her importance here. And it was quite true that the 
consul’s house had been a lively cne in its day. Two young wan- 
dering Englishmen would not have represented society then; but 
perhaps all the habitues of the house were not exactly on a level 
with the Berties. “ 1 have kept quiet, not without some trouble,” 
she conlinued, ‘‘ as you wu’shed it so much for Kate.’* 

** That was very kind of you,” he said; “but see, now, what 
odd reports get about. 1 heard that Kate had plunged into all 
sorts of gayety— ana was surrounded by Italians— and 1 don’t know 
wdiat besides.” 

“ And you came to take care of her?” said Ombra, quietly, at 
his ell^ow. 

Mr. Courtenay started. He did not expect an assault on that 
side also. 

“ 1 came to see you all, my dear young lady,” he said; “ and I 
congratulate you on your changed looks. Miss Ombra, Italy has 
made you look twice as strong and bright as you were in bhank- 
lin. 1 don’t know it it has done as much for Kale.” 

“ Kate has a cold,” said Mrs. Anderson, “ but otherwise she is 
in very good looks. As for Ombra, this might almost be called 
her native air.” 

This civil fencing went on for about half an hour. There was 
attack and defense, but both stealthy, vague, and general; for the 
assailant did not quite know what he had to find fault with, and 
the defenders were unaware what W’ould be the point of assault. 
Kate, who felt herself tne subject of contention, and who did net 
feel brave enough or happy enough to take up her role as she had 
done at Slianklin, kept in her corner and said very little. She 
coughed more than was at all necessary, to keep up her part of in- 
valid; but she did not throw her shield over her aunt as she had 
once done. With a certain mischievous satisfaction she left them 
to fight it out; they did not deserve Mr. Courtenay’s wrath, but 
yet they deserved something. ‘ For that one night Kate, who was 
somewhat sick and sore, felt in no mood to interfere. She could 
not even keep back one little arrow of her own, w^hen her uncle had^ 
withdrawn, promising an early visit on the morrow. 

“ As you think 1 am such an invalid, aunti^’ she said, with 


256 


OMBKA. 


playfulness, which was somewhat forced, when the door closed 
upon that untoward visitor, “ 1 think 1 had better go to bed.’' 

“ Perhaps it will be best,” said Mrs. Anderson, offended. And 
Kate rose, feeling angry and wicked, and ready to wound, she 
<}ould not tell why. 

” It is intolerable that that old man should come here with his 
suspicious looks — as if we meant to take advantage of him or harm 
cried Ombra, in indignation. 

“ If it is me whom you call her^ Ombra — ” 

“ Oh! den’t be ridiculous,” cried Ombra, impatiently. “ 1 am 
sure poor mamma has not deserved to be treated like a governess 
or a servant, and watched and suspected, on account of you.” 

By this time, however Mr. Andeison had recovered herself. 

“ Hush,” she said, “ Ombra; hush, Kate — don’t say things you 
will be sorry for. Mr. Courtenay has nothing to be suspicious 
about, that 1 know of, and it is only manner, 1 dare say. It is a 
pity that he should have that manner, but it is worse for him than 
it is fer me.” 

Kow Kate did not love her uncle Courtenay, but tor once in her 
life she was moved to defend him. And she did love her aunt; 
but she w^as wounded and sore, and felt herself neglected, and yet 
had no legitimate ground tor complaint. It was a relief to her to 
have this feasible reason for saying something disagreeable. The 
color heightened in her face. 

My uncle Courtenay has always been good to me,” she said, 
“ and if anxiety about me has brought him here, / ought to be 
grateful to him at least. He does not mean to be rude to any one, 
1 am sure; and it 1 am the first person he thinks of, you need not 
grudge it, Ombra. There is certainly no cne else in the world so 
foolish as to do that.” 

The tears were in Kate’s eyes; she went away hastily, that they 
might not tall. Bhe had never knowi: until this moment, because 
she had never permitted herself to think, how hurt and sore she 
was. She hurried to her owu room, and closed her door, and cried 
till her head ached. And then the dreadful thought came— how 
ungrateiul she had beeri! how wicked, how selfish! which was 
wmrse than all. 

^ ff'he two ladies were so taktn by surprise that they stood looking 
ritter her with a certain consternation. Ombra was the first to re- 
cover herself, and she was very angry, very vehement, against her 
cousin. 


OMBRA. 


257 


** Because she is rich, she thinks she should always be our ty- 
rant,'’ she cried. 

“Oh! hush, Ombra, hush! you don’t think what you are say- 
ing,’’ said her mother. 

“You see now, at least, what a mistake it would have been to 
take her into our confidence, mamma. It would have been fatal. 
1 am so thankful 1 stood out. If she had us in her power now, what 
should we have done?*’ Ombra added, more calmly, after the first 
irritation was over. 

But Mrs. Anderson shook her head. 

“ It is never wise to deceive any one; harm always comes of it,” 
she said sadly. 

“To deceive! Is it deceiving to keep one’s own secrets?” 

“ Harm always comes of it,” answered Mrs. Anderson emphat- 
ically. 

And after all was still in the hcuse, and everybody asleep, she 
stole through the dark passage in her dressing-room, and opened 
Kate’s door scftly, and vveut in and kissed the girl in her bed. Kate 
was not asleep, and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She caught 
the dark figure in her arms. 

“ Oh! forgive me. 1 am so ashamed of myself!” she cried. 

Mrs. Anderson kissed her again, and stole away without a word. 
“ Forgive her! It is she who must forgive me. Poor child! poor 
child!” she said in her heart. 


CHAPTER XLVll. 

Next morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the 
hotel to the Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a 
young man who was walking exactly in front of him with a great 
bouquet of violets in his hand. He was ycung, handsome, and 
well dressed, and the continual salutes he received as he moved 
along testified that he was well known in Florence. The old man’s 
eyes (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him with a certain 
pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there could 
be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, 
made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s sal- 
utations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, 
or marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, 
in Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular. 

Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the 
9 


258 


OMBKA. 


stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this imper- 
sonation of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no 
doubt he was a nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those 
families wdiich had kept in the good graces of the country by what 
these benighted nations considered patriotism. A tine young fel- 
low — perhaps with something like a career before him, now that 
Italy was holding up her head again among the nations— altogether 
an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of those well-born and 
w^ell-conaitioned beings, whom every man with good blood in his 
own veins feels more or less proud of. Buch were the thoughts of 
the old Englishman of the world, as he took his way in the winter 
sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece. 

It was a bright cold morning— a white rim of snow on the Apen- 
nines gave a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller 
heights on the other side of Arno there was green enough to keep 
winter in subjection. The sunshine was as warm as summer; very 
different from the dreary, dirty weatner which Mr. Courtenay had 
left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, though Piccadilly sometimes is 
as bright as the Eung-Aruo. Though he was as old as i^Iethuselah 
in Kate's eyes, this ogre of a guaidian was not so old in his own. 
And he had once been young, and when young had been in Flor- 
ence: and he had a flower in his button hole and no overcoat, 
which made him happy. And though he was peiplexed, he could 
not but feel, that the worst that he had been threatened with had 
not come true, and that perhaps the story was false altogether, and 
he was to escape without trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay 
walk very lightly along the sunny pavement, pleased with himself, 
and disposed to be pleased with other people; and the same amia- 
ble feelings directed his eyes toward the young Italian, and gave 
him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine young fellow; 
straight and swift he marched along, and would have distanced the 
old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded him. 
Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth 
whom he had been admiring enter the door- way to which he was*, 
himself bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he|fi 
climbed the stairs toward the second floor wheie his niece lived, he'^ 
overheard a lively conversation at Mis. Anderson’s very door. 

“ Arnica mia, 1 hope your beautiful young lady is belter,’* said 
the young man. “ Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miser- 
able 1 liave been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by 
this hard-hearted lady-aunt. You will say, cara mea, that it is 
the Lady Caryisfoit who sends the flowers, and that 1 am desolated 


OMBKA. 


259 


-^i^esolatecl? and all that comes into your good heart to say. For 
5 ^ou understand— 1 am sure you understand.” 

Oh, yes, i understand, Signor Coni’ Antonio,” said F rancesca. 
Trust to me, 1 know what to say. She is not very happy herself, 
e dear little signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other 
ling lady with her lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young 
ntleman, it is not bad for j ou. When one sees another loved, 
me wishes to beloved one’s self; but it is hard for Mees Katla. 
he will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s flowers and his mes- 
ige.” 

i ” But take care, Francesca mia, you must say they are from my 
iady Caryisfort,” said Count Antonio, ” and lay me at the feet of 
<|y little lady. 1 hunger— 1 thirst— I die to see her again! Will she 
ijot see my Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? 
The new prima donna has ccme, and has made a furoi^e. Tell her 
10, cava mia. Francesca, nrake her to come out, that 1 may see 
ier. Ycu will stand my friend — you were always miy friend.” 

“The Signor Conte forgets that I have told him that 1 am as 
a connection ct the family. 1 will do my very best for him. Ilistl 
hush! oh, miserecordia! Ecco il 'cecchio!''’ cried Francesca, under 
her breath. 

Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect 
he had not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning 
about il wcchio altogether. The young man turned and faced him 
as he reached the lauding. He was a handsome young fellow, 
with dark eyes, which were eloquent enough to get tp any girl's 
heart, Mr. Courtenay felt toward him as an old lady in the best 
scoiety might feel, did she see her son in the fatal clutches of a 
penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an heiress made, as it 
were, a man of her, and transferred all the female epithets of ” will- 
ful ” and ‘‘ designing ” to the other side. Antonio, with the polite- 
ness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let the older 
man pass. ” Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded 
politeness,” Mr. Courtenay said to himself— indeed, he used a 
stronger word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to 
repeat. He made no response to the young Italian’s politeness, but 
pushed on, hat on head, after the vigorous manner of the Britons. 
‘‘ Who are these for?” he asked, gruffly, indicating with his stick 
the bunch of violets which made the air sweet. 

” F'or ze young ladies, zaro,” said Fiancesca, demurely, as she 
ushered him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room. 
Mr. Jourtenay went in with suppressed fury. Kate was alone in 


OMBKA. 


2(]0 

the room waiting for him, and what with the agitation of the night, 
and the little flutter caused by his arrival, she was pale, and seemed 
to receive him with some nervousness. He noticed, too, that Fran- 
cesca carried away the bouquet, though he felt convinced it was 
not intended for Ombra. She was in the pay ot that young ad vent- 
urer! that Italian rogue and schemer! that fortune-hunting young 
blackguard! These were the intemperate epithets which Mr. Court 
euay applied to the handsome young Italian, as soon as he had 
found him out! 

“ Well, Kate,'' he said, sitting down beside her. 1 am sorry 
you are not well. It must be dull for you to be kept indoors, after 
you have had so much going about, and have been enjoying your- 
self so much.” 

” Did not you wish me to enjoy myself?” said Kate, whom her 
aunt’s kiss the night before had once more enlisted vehemently on 
the other side. 

” Oh, surely,” said her guardian. “ What do persons like my- 
self exist for, but to help young people to enjoy themselves? It is 
the only object of our lives!” 

“You mean to be satirical, 1 see,” said Kate, with a sigh, “ but 
1 don’t understand it. X wish you would speak plainly out. \ou 
taunted me last night with having made many friends, and having 
enjoyed myself— was it wrong? If you will tell me how few friends 
you wish me to have, or exactly how little enjoyment you think 
proper for me, 1 will endeavor to cany out your wishes— as long 
as 1 am obliged.” 

This was said in an undertone, with a grind and setting of Kale's 
white teeth, which, though very slight, spoke volumes. She had 
quite taken up again the colors which she had almost let fall last 
night. Mr. Courtenay was prepared for remonstranct , but net for 
such a vigorous onslaught. 

‘‘ You are civil, my deal,” he said, “ and sweet and submissive, 
and, indeed, everything 1 could have expected from your character 
and early habits; but 1 thought Mrs. Anderson had brought you 
under. 1 thought you knew better by this lime than to attempt to 
bully me.” 

” 1 don’t want to bully you,” cried Kate, with burning cheeks; 

“ but why do you come like this, with your suspicious looks, as if 
you came prepared to catch us in something?— whereas, all the 
world may know all about' us — whom we know, and what w’e do.” 

‘‘ This nonsense is your aunt’s, 1 suppose, and 1 don’t blame you 
fer it,” said Mr. Courtenay, ” Let us change the subject. You 


OMBKA. 


261 


are responsible to me, as it happens, but 1 am not responsible to 
you. Don't make yourself disagreeable, Kate. Tragedy is not your 
line, though it is your cousin’s. By the way, that girl is looking 
a great deal better than she did; she is a difierent creature. She 
has grown quite handsome. Is it because Florence is her native air, 
as her mother said?” 

“ 1 don’t knew,” said Kate. Ihough she had taken up her 
aunt’s colors again vehemently, she did not feel so warmly toward 
Ombra. A certain irritation had been going on in her mind for 
some time. It had burst forth on the previous night, and Ombra 
had offered no kiss, said no word of reconciliation. So she was not 
disposed to enter upon any admiring discussion of her cousin. She 
would have resented anything that had been said unkindly, but it 
was no longer in her mind to plunge into applause of Ombra. A 
change had thus come over them both. 

Mr. Courtenay looked at her very keenly — he saw there was some- 
thing wrong, but he could not tell what it was. Some girlish quar- 
rel, no doubt, he said to himself. Girls were always quarreling — 
abcut their levers, or about their dresses, or something. Therefore 
he went over this ground lightly, and returned to his original attack. 

“You like Florence?” he said. ” Tell me what you have been 
doing, and whom you have met. There must be a great many 
English here, 1 suppose?” 

However, he had roused Kate’s suspicions, and she was not in- 
clined to answer. 

‘‘ We have been doing what everybody else does,” she said — 
” going to see the pictures and all the sights; and we have met 
Lady Caryisfort. That is about all, I think. She has rather taken 
a fancy to me, because she belongs to our own county. She takes 
me to drive sometimes; and 1 have seen a great deal of her— 
especially of late.” 

” Why especially of late?’' 

‘‘Oh! 1 don’t know — that is, my aunt and Ombra found some 
old friends who were not fine enough, they said, to please you, so 
they left me behind; and 1 did not like it, 1 suppose being silly; so 
1 have gone to Lady Caryisfort’s more than usual since.” 

•* Oh-h!” said Mr. Courtenay, feeling that ‘[enlightenment was 
near. ” It was very honorable of 3'Our aunt, 1 am sure. And this 
Lady Caryisfoit?— is she a match-maker, Kate?” 

” A match-maker? 1 don’t understand what you mean, uncle.” 

“You have met a cei tain young Italian, a Count Buoncompagni, 
whom 1 have heard of, there?” 


262 


OMBKA. 


Kate reddened, in spite of herself— being on the eve of getting 
into trouble about him, she began to feel a melting of her heart to 
Antonio. 

“ Do you know anything about Count Buoncompagni?’" she 
asked, with elaborate calm. This, then, was what her uncle meant 
—this was what he had come from England about. Was it really 
so impcrtant as that? 

“ 1 have heard of him,’" said Mr. Courtenay, dryly. “ Indeed, 
five minutes ago, I followed him up the stairs, without knowing 
who he was. and heard him giving a string of messages and a bunch 
of flowers to that wretched old woman.” 

“Was it me he was asking fr-r?” said Kate, quite touched. 
“ How nice and how kind he isi He has asked for me every day 
since I have had this cold. The Italians are so nice, Uncle Courte- 
nay. They are so sympathetic, and take such an interest in you.” 

“ I have not the least doubt of it,” he said, grimly. “ And how 
long has tnis young Buoncompagui taken an interest in you? It 
may be very nice, as you say, but I doubt it 1, as 5^our guardian, 
can taKe so much pleasure in it as you do. 1 want to hear all about 
it, and where and how often you have met.” 

Kate wavered a moment— whether to be angry and refuse to tell, 
or to keep her temper and disarm her opponent. She chose the lat- 
ter alternative, chiefly because she was beginning to be amused, 
and felt that some “ fun ” might be got out of the matter. And it 
was so long now (about two weeks and a half) since she had had 
any “ fun.” She did so want a little amusement. Whereupon she 
answered very demurely, and with much conscious skill, 

“ 1 met him. first at the Embassy — at Lady Granton’s ball,” 

“ At Lady Granton’s ball?” 

“ Yes. There were none but the very best people there -the 
creme de la creme, as auntie says. Lady Granton’s sister introduced 
liim to me. He is a very good dancer— just the sort of man that is 
nice to waltz with; and very pleasant to talk to, uncle.” 

“ Oh! he is very pleasant to talk to, is he?” said Uncle Courte- 
nay, still more grimly. 

“ Very much so indeed. He talks excellem French, and beauti- 
ful Italian. It does one all the good in the w'oild talking to such a 
man. It is better than a dozen lessons. And then he is so kind, 
and never laughs at one’s mistakes. And he has such a lovely old 
palace, and is so well known in Florence. He may not be very rich 
perhaps — ” 

“Eichl— a beggarly adventurer— a confounded fortune hunterl 


OMBRA. 


263 


—an Italian rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours 
could have shut her eyes to such a piece of lolly; or your Lady 
Caiyistort, forsooth—” 

“Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady 
Caryisfort, or that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever 
and very agreeable. But 1 was going t^ say that though Count 
Buoncompagni is not rich, he gave us the most beautiful little 
luncheon the day we went to see his pictures. Lady Caryisfort said 
it was perfection. And talking of that — if he brought some flow- 
ers, as you say, 1 should like to have them. May 1 go and speak 
to Francesca about them?— or perhaps you would rather ring the 
bell?” 

CHAPTER XLYlll. 

It was thus that Kate evaded the further discussion of the ques- 
tion. She went ofl gayly bounding along the long passage. 
‘‘Francesca, Francesca, where are my flowers?” she cried. Her 
heart had grown light all at onCe. A little mischief, and a little 
opposition, and the freshness, yet naturalness, of having Uncle 
Courtenay to fight wdth, exhilarated her spirits. Yes, it felt nat- 
ural. To be out of humor with her aunt was a totally diflerent 
matter. That was all pain, with no compensating excitement; but 
the other was “lun.” It filled her with wholesome energy and 
contradictoriness. ” It Uncle Coourtenay supposes 1 am going to 
give up poor Antonio for him—” she said in her heart, and danced 
along the passage, singing snatches of tunes, and calling to Fran- 
cesca, ” Where are my flowers? I know there are some flowers 
for me. Some one cares to know whether 1 am dead or alive,” she 
said. 

Francesca came out of the dining room, holding up her hands to 
implore silence. ‘‘On! my dear young lady,” said Francesca, 
‘‘you must not be imprudent. "When we receive flowers from a 
beautiful young gentleman, we take them tc our chamber, or wm 
put them in our bosoms— we don't dance and sing over them— or, 
at least, young ladies who have educaticn, who know' what the 
world expects of them, must not so behave. In my room, Mees 
Katta, you will find your flowers. They are sent from the English 
miladi — Miladi Caryisfort,” Francesca added, demurely folding 
her arms upon her breast. 

‘‘ Oh! are they from Lady Caryisfort?” said Kate-, with a little 
disappointment. After all, it was not so romantic as she thought. 


0MI?RA. 


2 ^ 4 : 

“ My young lady understands that it must be so/’ said Frances- 
ca, “ for young ladies must not be compromised; but tbe band that 
carried them was that of the young contino, and as handsome a 
young fellow as any in Florence. 1 am very glad 1 am old — 1 might 
be his grandnc^olher; for otherwise, look you, mademoiselle, his 
voice is so mellow, and he looks so with his eyes, and says Frances- 
ca mia, cara arnica, and such like, that 1 should be foolish, even an 
old woman like me. They have a way with them, these Buoncom- 
pagni. His father, I recollect, who was very like Count Antonio, 
veiy nearly succeeded in turning the head of my Angelina, my lit- 
tle sister that died. Ho harm came of it, Mees Katta, or 1 would 
not have told. We took her away to the convent at Rocca, where 
we had a cousin, a very pious woman, well known throughout the 
country. Sister Agnese, of the Reparazione; and there she got quite 
serious, and as good as a little saint before she died.” 

“ Was it his fault that she died?” cried Kate, always ready for 
a story. “ 1 should have thought, Francesca, that you would have 
hated him for ever and ever,” 

“1 had the honor of saying to the signorina that no harm was 
done,” said Francesca, with gravity. “Why should 1 hate the 
good count for being handsome and civil? It is a way they have, 
these Buoncompagni. But, for my pjrrt, 1 think more of Count 
Antonio than 1 ever did of his father. Miladi Caryistoit would 
speak for him, Mees Katta. She is a lady that knows the Italians, 
and understands how to speak. She has always supported the con- 
tino’s suit, has not she? and she will speak for him. He is deso- 
lated, desolated — he has just told me— to be so many days without 
seeing mademoiselle; and, indeed, he looked very sad. We other 
Italians don’t hide our feelings as you do in your country. He 
looked sad to break one’s heart; and, Mees Katia, figure to your- 
self my feelings when 1 saw the signora’s uncle come pufl-puff, 
with his difficulty of breathing, up the stair.” 

“ What did it matter?” said Kate, putting the best face upon it. 
“ Of course 1 v^rill not conceal anything from my uncle— though 
there is nothing to conceal.” 

“ Miladi Caiyisfort will speak. If 1 might be allowed to repeat 
it to the signorina, she is the best person to speak. She knows him 
well through his aunt, who is dei Strozzi, and a very great lady. 
You will take the signor uncle there, Mees Katta, if ycu think 
well of my advice.” 

“1 do not want any advice— there is nothing to be advised 
about,” cried Kate, coloring deeply, and suddenly recognizing the 


OMBRA. 


265 


character which Francesca had taken upon herself. She rushed 
into Francesca^s room, and brought out the violets, all wet and fra- 
grant. They were such a secret as could not be hid. They per- 
fumed all the passages as she hurried lo her cwn little room, and 
separated a little knot of the dark blue blossoms to put in her 
bodice. How sweet they were! How “ nice of Antonio to bring 
them! How strange that he should say they were from Lady Cary- 
isfort? Why should he say they were from Lady Chryisfert? 
And was he really sad because he did not see her? How 
good, how kind he was! Other people were not sad. Other peo- 
ple did not care, she su])posed, if they never saw her again. And 
here Kate gave a little sigh, and blushed a great, indignant blush, 
and put her facedown into the abundant fragrant bouquet. It was 
so sweet, and love was sweet, and the (bought that one was cared 
tor, and thought of, and missed! This thought was very grateful 
and pleasant, as sweet as the flowers, and it went to Kate’s heart. 
She could have done a great deal at that moment for the sake of 
the tender hearted jmung Italian, who comforted her wounded feel- 
ings, and helped to restore the balance of her being by the atten- 
tions which were so doubly consoling in the midst— she said lo her- 
self— of coldness and neglect. 

Lady Caryisfort called soon afterward, and was delighted to 
make Mr. Courtenay’s acquaintance; and, as Kate was better, she 
tock them both to the Cascine. That was the first morning — Kate 
remembered afterward, with many wondering thoughts— that the 
Berties had not called before luncheon, and Ombra did not appear 
until that meal, and was less agreeable than she had been since 
they left Shanklin. But these thoughts soon fled from her mind, 
and so did a curious, momentary feeling, that her 'aunt and cousin 
looked relieved when she went away with Lady Caryisfort. They 
did not go. Mrs. Anderson, too, had a cold, she said, and would 
not go out that day, and Ombra was busy. 

“ Ombra is very often busy now,” said Lady Caryisfort, as 
they drove oil. ” What is it, Kate? She and Mrs. Anderson used 
to find time for a drive now and then at first.” 

” 1 don’t know what it is,” Kate said, with some pain; and then 
a little ebullition of her higher spirits prompted her to add an expla- 
nation, which was partly malicious, and partly kind, to save her 
cousin from remark. ” She writes poetry,” said Kate, demurely. 

Perhaps it is that.” 

“Oh! good heavens, if 1 had known she was literary!” cried 
JLiady Caryisfort, with gentle horror. But here were the Cascine, 


266 


OMBRA. 


and thG fiower-giils, and the notabilities who had to be pointed out 
to the new-comer, and the count, who had appeared quite natural- 
ly by Kate’s side of the carriage. Mr. Courtenay said little, but 
he kept his eyes open, and noted everything. He looked at the 
lady opposite to him, and listened to her dauntless talk, and heard 
all the compliments addressed to her, and the smiling contempt 
with which she received them. This sort of woman could not be 
aiding and abetting in a vulgar matrimonial scheme, he said to him- 
self. And he was i^uzzled what to, make of the business, and how 
to put a stop to it. For the Italian kept his place at Kate’s side, 
without any attempt at concealment, and was not a person who 
cculd be sneered down by the lordly British stare, or treated quite 
as a nobody. Mr. Courtenay knew the world, and he knew that 
an Englishman who should be rude to Count Buoncoinpagni on his 
own soil, on the Cascine at Florence, must belong to a different 
class of men from the class which, being at the top of the social 
ladder, is more cosmopolitan than any other, except the w^orking- 
people, who are at its lower level. An indignant British uncle from 
Bloomsbury or Ilighgate might have done this, but not one whose 
blood was as blue as that of the Buoncompagni. It was impossi- 
ble. And yet it was hard upon him to see all this going on under 
his very eyes. Lady Caryisfort had insisted that he and Kate 
should dine with, her, and it was with the farewell of a very tem- 
porary parting glance that Count Antonio went away. This w'as 
terrible, but it must be fully observed before being put a stop to. 
He tried to persuade himself that to be patient was his only wis- 
dom. 

“ But will not your aunt be>exed, be affronted, feel herself neg- 
lected, if we go tc dine with Lady Caryisfort? Ladies, 1 know, 
are rather prompt to take offense in such matters,” he said. 

“Oh! my aunt!— she will not be offended. 1 don’t think she 
will be offended,” said Kate, in the puzzled tone which he had al- 
ready noticed. And the two young men ct last night were again 
in the diawing-rocm when he went upstairs. Was there some 
other scheme, some independent intrigue, in this? But he 
shrugged his shoulders and said, what did it matter? It was 
nothing to him. Miss Ombra had her mother to manage her 
affairs. Whatever their plans might be they were not his busi- 
ness, so long as they had the good sense not to interfere with 
Kate. 

The dinner at Lady Caryisfort’s was small but pleasant. The 
only Italian present was a Countess Strozzi, a well-bred weman. 


OMBRA. 


2G7 


who had been embassadress from Tuscany once at St. James’s, and 
whom Mr. Courtenay had met before — but no objectionable counts. 
He really enjoyed himself at that admirable table. After all, he 
thought, there is no Sybarite like your rich accomplished, inae- 
pendent woman— no one who comlines the beautiful and dainty 
with the excellent in such a hish degree; so long as she under- 
stands cookery ; for the choice of guests and the external arrange- 
ments are sure to be complete. And Lady Caryisfort did under- 
stand cookery. It was the pleasantest possible conclusion to his 
hurried journey and his perplexity. It was London, and Paris, 
and Florence all in one; the comfort, the exquisite fare, the society, 
all helped each other into perfection; and there was a certain flavor 
of distance and novelty in the old Italian palace which enhanced 
everything— the flavor of the past. This v/as not a thing to be had 
every day, like a Paris dinner. But in the evening Mr. Courtenay 
was less satisfied. When the giedii salon y with its warm velvet 
hangings, and its dim frescoes, began to fill, Buoncompagni turned 
up from some corner or other, and appeared as if by magic at 
Kate’s side. The guardian did the only thing which could be done 
in the circumstances. He approached the sofa under the picture, 
which w'as the favorite throne of the lady of the house, an I waited 
patiently until there was a gap in the circle surioundiiig her, and 
he could find an entrance. She made rconi for him at last, with 
the most charming grace. 

“ Mr. Courtenay, you are not like the rest of my friends. 1 have 
not heard all 3mur good things, nor all your news, as 1 have theirs. 
You are a real comfort to talk to, and 1 did not have the good of 
you at dinner. Sit by me, please, and tell me something new. No- 
body does,'’ she added, with a little flutter of her fan, “ nobody 
ever seems to think that fresh fare is needful sometimes. Let us 
talk of Kate.” 

‘‘ If I am bound to confine myself to that subject ” — said the old 
man of society—” 1 reserve the question whether it is kind to re- 
mind me thus broadly that 1 am a Methuselah.” 

“Oh! 1 am a Methusela myself, without the h,” said Lady 
Caryisfort. “The young people interest me in a gentle, grand- 
inotheily way. 1 like to see them enjoy themselves, and all that.” 

“Precisely,” said Mr. Courtena\^ “1 quite understand and 
perceive the appropriateness of the situation. ITou are interested 
in that, for example?” he said, suddenly changing his tone, and 
indicating a group at the other side of the rocm. Kale, with some 
floweis in her hand, which had dropped from the bouquet still in 


208 


OMBRA. 


her bosom, with lier head drocping over them, and a vivid blush 
on her cheek — while Count Antonio, bending over her, seemed ask- 
ing for the flowers, with a hand half extended, and stooping so low 
that his handsome head was close to hers. This altitude was so 
prettily suggestive of something asked and granted, that a bewil- 
dered blush flushed up upon Lady Caryistort’s delicate face at the 
sight. She turned to her old companion with a startled look, in 
which there was something almost like pain. 

“ Well?’* she said, with mingled excitement, surprise, and de- 
flance, which he did not understand. 

“I don’t think it is well,’’ he said. “ V^ill you tell me— and 
pardon an old disagreeable guardian for asking— how far this has 
gone?” 

” You see as wall as 1 do,” she said, with a little laugh; and 
then, changing her tone, ‘‘ But, however far it is gone, 1 have 
nothing to do with it. It seems extremely careless cn my part, but 
1 give you my word, Mr. Courtenay, I never really noticed it till 
to-night.” 

This was true enough, notwith&tanding that she had perceived 
the dangers of the situation, and warned both parties against it at 
the outset. For up to this moment she had not seen the least trace 
of emotion on the part of Kate. 

‘‘Nothing could make me doubt a lady’s word,” said the old 
man; “but one knows that in such matters the code of honoris 
held lightly.” 

“ 1 am not holding it lightly,” she said, with sudden tire; and 
then, pausing with an effort — “ It is true 1 had not noticed it before. 
Kate is so trank and so young; such ideas never seem to occui to 
one in connection with her. But, Mi. Courtenay, Count Buoncom- 
pagni is no adventurer. He may be poor, but he is — honorable- 
good—” 

“ The woman is agitated,” Mr. Courtenay said to himself. 

“ What fools these women are! My stars!” But he added, with 
grim politeness, “ It is utterly out of the question, Lady Caiyisfoi t. 
You are the airl’s countiy woman— even her county woman. You 
are not one to incur the fatal rei.utation of match-making. Help me 
to brealr off this folly completely, and 1 will be grateful to you for- 
ever. It must be done, whether you will help me or not.” 

As he spoke, somehow or other she recovered her calm. 

“Are you so hard-hearted,” she said, “so implacable a model 
of guardians? And 1, innocent soul, who had supposed you ro 
mantic and Arcadian, wishing Kate to be loved tor herself alone, 


OMBKA. 


2i]d 


and all the sentimental etceteras. So it must be put a stop to, must 
it? 'Well, if there is nothing to be said for poor Antonio, 1 sup- 
pose, as it is my fault, I must help.’' 

“ There can be no doubt of it,” said Mr. Courtenay. 

Lady Caryisfort kept her eyes upon the two, and her lively brain 
began to work. The question interested her, there could be no 
doubt. She was shocked at herself, she said, that she had allowed 
things to go so far without finding it out. And then the two peo- 
ple of the world laid their heads together, and schemed the destruc- 
tion of Kate’s fanciful little dream, and of poor Antonio’s hopes. 
Ml. Courtenay had no compunction, and though Lady Caryisfort 
smiled and made little appeals to him not to look so implacable, 
there was a certain gleam of excitement quite unusual to her about 
her demeanor also. 

They had settled their plan before Kate had decided that, on the 
whole, it was best to thrust the dropped violets back into her belt, 
and not to give them to Antonio. It was nice to receive the flowers 
from him; but to give one back, tc accept the look with which it 
was asked, to commit heiself in his favoi~that was a totally differ- 
ent question. Kate shiunk intc herself at the suit which was thus 
pressed a hair’s breadth further than she was prepared foi. It was 
just the balance of a straw whether she should have yielded or 
taken fright. And, happily for her, witli those two pairs of eyes 
upon her, it was the fright that won the day, and not the impulse 
to yield. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

Kate had a good deal to think of when she went home that 
evening, and shut herself up in the room which was full of the 
sweetness of Antonio’s violets. Francesca, with an Italian’s natu- 
ral terror of flower scents, had carried them away; but Kate had 
paused on her way to her room to rescue the banished flowers. 

‘‘ They are enough to kill mademoiselle in her bed, ^ and leave us 
all miserable,” said Francesca. 

‘‘lam not a bit afraid of violets,” said Kate. 

On the contrary, she wanted them to help her. For she did not 
go into the drawing-room, though it was still early. The two young, 
men, she heard, were there; and Kate felt a little sick at heart, 
and did not care to go where she was not w'anted. ‘‘ VYhere her ab- 
sence,” as she said to herself, ‘‘ was never remarked.” Oh! how dif- 
erent it was from what it had been! Only a tew weeks ago she had 


270 


OMBRA. 


been unable to form an idea of herself detached from her aunt and 
cousin, who Went everywhere with her, and shared everything. 
Even Lady Caryisfort had shown no favoritism toward Kate at first. 
She had been quite as kind to Ombra, quite as friendly to Mrs. An 
derson. it was their owm doing altogether. They had snatched, as 
it were, at Lad} Caryisfort, as one who wmuld disembarrass them 
of the inconvenient cousin — “ the ihiid, who w^as always de irop^"* 
poor Kate said to herself, with a scb in her throat, and a dull pang 
in her heart, i’hey still went through all the formulas of affection, 
but they got rid of her, they did not want her. When she had 
closed the door of her room even upon Maryanne, and sat down 
over the fire in her dressing-gown, she reflected upon her position, 
as she had never reflected on it before. She was nobody's child. 
People were kind to her, but she was not necessary to any one’s 
happiness; she belonged to no borne of her own, where her pres^ 
ence w^as essential. Her aunt loved her in a way, but, so long as she 
had Ombra, could do without Kate. And her uncle did not love 
her at all, only intertered with her life, and turned it into new 
channels, as suited him. She was of no importance to any one, 
except in relation to Langton- Courtenay, and her money, and es- 
tates. 

This is a painful and dangerous discovery to he made by a girl 
of nineteen, with a great vase full of violets at her elbow, the offer- 
ing of such a fortune-hunter as Antonio Buoncompagni, one who 
was mercenary only because it was his duty to his family, and in 
reality meant no harm. He was a young man who was quite capa- 
ble of having fallen in love with her, had she not been so rich and 
so desirable a match; and as it was he liked her, and was ready to 
swear that he loved her, so as to deceive net only her, but himself. 
But, perhaps, after all, it was he, and not she, who was most eas- 
ily deceived. Kate, though she did not know it, had an instinct- 
ive inkling of the real state of the case, which was the only thing 
which saved her from falling at once and altogether into Antonio’s 
net. Had she been sure that he loved her, nothing could have 
saved her; for love in the midst of neglect, love whioh comes 
spontaneous wdien other people are indifferent, is the sweetest and 
most consolatory of all things. Sometimes she had almost per- 
suaded herself that this was the case, and had been ready to rush 
into Antonio’s arms; but then there would come that cold shudder 
of hesitation which precedes a final plunge— that doubt — that con- 
sciousness that the Buoncompagni were poor, and wanted English 
money to build them up again. . As for the poverty itself, she 


OMBBA. 


271 


cared Dothinjs;; but she felt th*at, had her lover been even moder- 
ately well otf, it would have saved her from that shrinking chill 
and suspicion. And then she turned, and rent herself, so to speak, 
remembering the sublime emptiness of (hat space on the wall where 
the Madonna dei Buoncompagni used to be. 

“ If 1 can ever find it out anywhere, whatever it may cost, 1 will 
buy it, and send it back to him,” Kate said, with a flush on her 
cheek. And next moment she cried with real distress, feeling for his 
disappointment, and asking heiself why should not she dp it? why 
not? To make a man happy, and raise up an old house, is worth 
a woman’s while, surely, even though she might not be very much 
in love. Was it quite certain that people were always very much 
in love when they married? A great many things, more imporlant. 
were involved in any alliance made by a little princess in her own 
right; and such was Kate’s character to her own consciousness, 
and in the eyes of other people. The violets breathed all round her, 
and the soft silence and loneliness of the night enveloped her; and 
then she heard the stii in the drawing-room, the movement of the 
visitors going away, and whispering voices which passed her door, 
and Ombra’s laugh, soft and sweet, like the very sound of happi- 
ness — 

Ombra was happy; and what cared any one for Kate? She was 
the one alone in this little loving household— and that it should be 
so little made the desolation all the greater. Bhe was one of three, 
and yet the others did not care what she was thinking, how she 
was feeling. Kate crent to bed silently, and put out her light, that 
her aunt might not ceme to pity her, after she had said good- 
night to her own happy child, whom everybody thought of. 
“ And yet I might have as good,” Kate said to herself. ” 1 am 
not alone any more than Ombra. 1 have my violets too — my beau 
chevalier — if 1 like.” Ah! the beau chevalier! Some one had 
sung that wistful song at Lady Caryisfort’s that night. It came 
back upon Kate’s mind now in the dark, mingled with the whis- 
pering of the voices, and the little breath of chilly night air that 
came when the door opened. 

“ Ne voyez vous pas que la nuit est profonde, 

Et que le moncle 
N’est que souci.” 

Strange, at nineteen, in all the sweetness of her youth, the heiress 
of Langton had come to understand how that might be! 

Lady Caryistort tcok more urgent measures on her side than Mr. 
Courtenay had thought it wise to do. She detained her friend, 


272 


OMBKA. 


the Countess Strozzi, and her frencBs nephew, when all the other 
guests were gone. Tnis flattered Antonio, who thought it possible 
some proposition might be about to be made to him, and made the 
countess uncomfortable, who knew the English better than he. 
Lady Caryisfort made a very bold assault upon the two. She took 
high ground, and assured them that, without her consent and coun- 
tenance, to mature a scheme of this kind under her wing, as it 
were, was a wrong thing to do. She was so very virtuous in short, 
that Countess Strozzi woke up to a sudden and lively hope that 
Lady Cary is tort had more reasons than those which concerned 
Kate for disliking the match; but this she kept to herself; and the 
party sat late ind long into the night discussing the matter. An- 
tonio was reluctant, very reluctant, to give up the little English 
maiden, whom he declared he loved. 

“ Would you love her if she were penniless— if she had no lands 
and castles, but was as her cousin?” said Lady Caryistort; and the 
young man paused. He said at last that, though probably he 
would love her still better in these circumstances, lie should not 
dare to ask her to marry him. But was that possible? And then 
it was truly that Lady Caryisfort distinguished herself. She told 
bimall that was possible to a ferocious English guardian— how, 
though he could not take the money away, he could bind it up so 
that it would advantage no cne; how he could make the poor hus- 
band no belter than a pensioner of the rich wife, or even settle it so 
that even the rich wife should become poor, and have nothing in 
her power except the income, which, of course, could not be taken 
from her. “ Even that she will not have till she is of age, two long 
years hence,” Lady Caryisfort explained; and then gave such a lu- 
cid sketch of trustees and settlements that the young Italian’s soul 
shrunk into his boots. His face grew longer and longer as he list- 
ened. 

“ But 1 am committed — myLonor is involved,” he said. 

” A/i/ pazzOy alloi^a hai parlato !'" cried his kinswoman. 

” Ho, 1 have not spoken, not in so many words; but 1 have been 
understood,” said Antonio, with that imbecile smile and blush of 
vanity which women know so well. 

” 1 think you may make yourself easy in that respect,” said Lady 
Caryisfort. ” Kate is not in love with you,” a speech which al- 
most undid what she had been laboring to dc; for Antonio’s pride 
was up, and could scarcely be pacified. He had committed him- 
SF.lf ; he had given Kate to understand that he was her lover, and 
how was he now to withdraw? “If he i)roposes, she is a roman- 


OMBRA. 


273 


tic child — no moie than a child— and she is capable of accepting 
him/’ Lady Caryisfort said to his aunt in their last moment of con- 
sultation. 

“ Leave him to me, cam miay"' said the countess— “ leave him 
to me.” And that noble lady went away with her head full of 
new combinations. ‘‘ The girl will not be of age for two years, 
and in that time anything may happen. It would be hard for yon 
to wait two years, Antonie mio; let us think a little. 1 know 
ancther, ycung still, very handsome, and with everything in her 
own power—” 

Antonio was indignant, and resented the suggestion; but Count- 
ess Strozzi was not impatient. She knew very well that to such 
arguments, in the long run, all Antonios yield. 

Mr. Courtenay entered the drawing-room in the Lung- Arno next 
day at noon, and found all the ladies there. Again the Berties 
were absent, but there was no cloud that morning upon Ombra's 
face. Kate had made her appearance, looking pale and ill, and the 
heaits of her cempanions had been touched. They were compunc- 
tious and ashamed, and eager to make up tor the neglect of which 
she had never complained. Even Ombra had kissed her a second 
time after the formal morning salutation, and had said ‘‘Forgive 
me!” as she did so. 

‘‘ For what?” said Kate, with the intention of being pioud and 
unconscious. But when she had looked up, and met her aunt’s 
anxious look, and Ombra’s eyes with tears in them, her own over- 
flowed. ‘‘Oh! 1 am so ill-tempered,” she said, ‘‘ and ungrateful. 
Don’t speak to me.” 

‘‘ You are just as 1 was a little while ago,” said Ombra, “But, 
Kate, with you it is all delusion, and soon, very soon, you will 
know better. Don’t be as I was.” 

As Ombra was! Kate dried her eyes, yet she did not know 
whether to be gratified or to be angry. Why should she be as Ora- 
bra had been? But yet even these few words brought about a bet- 
ter understanding. And the three were seated together, in the old 
wray, when Mr. Courtenay entered. He had the air of a man full 
of business. In his hand he carried a packet of letters, some of 
which he had not yet opened. 

‘‘ 1 have just had letters from Langtcn,” he said. ” 1 don’t know 
if you take any interest in Langton— or these ladies, who have 
never even seen it—” 

‘‘ Of course 1 do, uncle,” cried Kate. ” Take Interest in my own 
house, my dear old home I” 


274 


OMEKA. 


“ It does not follow that young ladies who are fond of Italy should 
care about a dull ojd place in the heart of England/’ said this wily 
old man. “ Grieve tells me it is going to rack and ruin, which is 
not pleasant news. He says it is wicked and shameful to leave it 
so long without inhabitants; that the village is discontented, and 
dirty, and wretched, with no one to look after it. In short, ladies, 
if 1 look miserable, you must forgive me, for 1 have not got over 
Grieve’s letter.” 

“ Who is Grieve, uncle?” 

” The new estate-agent, Kate. Didn’t you know? Ah! you 
must begin to take an interest in the estate. My time is drawing 
to a close, and 1 shall be glad, very glad, to be rid of it. If 1 could 
go down and live there, 1 might do something; but as that is im- 
possible, 1 suppose things must continue going to the bad till you 
come of age.” 

Kate sat upright in her chair; her cheeks began to glow, and her 
eyes to shine. 

” Why should things go to the bad?” she said. ” 1 would rather 
they did not, for my part.” 

” How can they do otherwise,” said Mr. Courtenay, ‘‘ while the 
house is shut up, and there is no one to see to anything? Grieve is 
a good fellow, but 1 can’t give him J^angton to live in, or make 
him into a Courtenay.” 

” 1 should hope not,” said Kate, setting her small white teeth. 
By this time her whole countenance began to gleam with excite- 
ment and resolution, and that charm to which she always responded 
with such delight and readiness, the charm of novelty. Tlien she 
made a pause, and drew in her breath. ” Uncle,” she said, ” I am 
not a child any longer. Why shouldn’t 1 go home, and open the 
house, and live as 1 ought? 1 want something to do. 1 want duty, 
such as other people have. It is my business to look after Langtou. 
Let me go home.” 

” You foolish child!” he said; which was a proof, though Kate 
did not see it, that everything was working as he wished. ‘‘ You 
foolish child! How could you, at nineteen, go and live in that 
house alone?” 

8he looKed up. Her crimscn cheek grew white, her e^^es went in 
one wistful, imploring look from her aunt to Ombra, from Ombra 
back again to Mrs. Anderson. Her lips parted in her eagerness, 
her eyes shone out like lights. She was as if about to speak — but 
stopped short, and referred to them, as it were, for the answer. 
Mr. Courtenay looked at them too, not without a little anxiety; 


OMBRA. 


275 


but ibe interest in bis face was of a very diECerent kind from that 
shown by Kate. 

“ If you mean/’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and, tor ber part, 
consulting Ombra with ber eyes, “ that you would like me to go 
witb you— Kate, my darliug, tbank you for wishing it— (>b! thank 
you, 1 have not deserted— But most likely your uncle would not 
like it, Kate.” 

“ On the contrary,’' said Mr. Courtenay, with bis best bow, ” if 
you would entertain the idea-df it suits with your other plans logo 
to Langton, till Kate comes of age, it would be everytbiug that 1 
could desire. ” 

The three looked at each other for a full moment in uncertainty 
and wonder. And then Kate suddenly jumped up, overturned the 
little table by her side, on which stood the remains of her violets, 
and danced round the room witli wild delight. 

‘‘ Oh! let us go at once!— let us leave this horrid old picture-gal- 
lery! Let us go home, home!” she cried, tn an outburst of joy. 
The vase was broken, and the dead violets strewed over the carpet. 
Francesca came in and sw^ept them away, and no one took any 
notice. That was over. And now for home— for home! 


CflAPTEK L. 

The success cf this move had gone far beyond Mr. Courtenay’s 
highest hopes. He was unprepared for the suddenness of its ac- 
ceptance. He went ofl, and lolii Lady Caryisfcrt, with a surprise 
and satisfaction that was almost rueful. ‘‘ Since that woman came 
into my niece’s affairs,” he said, ” 1 have had to sacrifice something 
for every step i have gained; and 1 bnd that 1 have made the sacrifice 
exactly wUen it suited her — to buy a concession she was dying to 
make. 1 never meant her to set foot in Langton, and now she is going 
there as mistress; and just, 1 am certain, at the time; it suits her 
to go. This is what happens to a simple-minded man when he 
ventures to enter the lists with women. 1 have a great mind to put 
everything in her hands and retire from the field.” 

” 1 don’t think she is so clever as you give her credit for,” said 
Lady Caryisfort, who was somewhat languid after the night’s exer- 
tions. “1 suspect it was you who found out the moment that 
suited you rather than she.” 

But she gave him, in her turn, an account of what she had done,, 
and they formed an alliance ofieusive and defensive — a public treaty 


27G 


OMBRA. 


of friendship for the world’s inspection, and a secret alliance known 
only to themselves, by the conditions of which Lady Caryisfort 
bound herself to repair to London, and take Kate under her charge 
when it should be thought necessary and expedient by the allied 
powers. She pledged heiself to present the heiress, and watch 
ever her, and guard her from all match-makers, that the humble 
chaperon might be dismissed, and allowed to go in peace. When 
he had concluded this bargain, Mr. Courtenay went away with a 
lighter heart, to make prepaiatious for his niece’s return. He had 
been most successful in his pretense to get her away from Florence; 
and now this second arrangement to get rid of the relations who 
would be no longer necessary, seemed to him a miracle of diplo- 
macy. He chuckled lo himself over it, and rubbed his hands, 

“ Kate must not be treated as a child any longer — she is grown 
up, she has a judgment of her own,” he said, with a delicious sense 
of humor; and then he listened very gravely to all her enthusiastic 
descriptions of what she was to do when she got to Langtou. Kate, 
however, after the first glow of her resolution, did not feel the mat- 
ter so easy as it appeared. She had not thought of the violets, 
which Francesca swept up, at the moment; but afterward the recol- 
lection of them came back to her. She had allowed them to be 
swept away without a thought. What a cold heart! — wdiat an un- 
graieful nature she must have! And poor Antonio! In the light 
of Langton, Antonio looked to her all at once impossible— as im 
possible as it would be to transplant his old palace to English soil. 
]No way could the two ideas be harmonized. She puckered her 
brows over it till she made her head ache. Count Buoncompagni 
and Langlon-Courtenay ! They would not come together— could 
not— it was impossible! Indeed, the one idea chased the other from 
her mind. And how was she to intimate this strange and cruel 
fact to him? How was she to show that all his graceful attentions 
must be brought to an end? — that she was going home, and all 
must be over? And the worst was that it could not be done g^^^- 
ually; but one way or another must be managed at once. 

The next day Lady Caryisfort came, as usual, on her way to the 
Cascine; but, to Kate’s surprise and relief, and, it must be owned, 
also lo her disappointment, Antonio, was not there. She declined 
the next invitation to Lady Caryisfort’s, inventing a headache tor 
the occasion; and growing more and more perplexed the longer she 
thought over that difficult matter. It was while she was musing 
thus that Bertie Hardwick one day managed to get beside her for 
a moment, while Ombra was talking to his cousin. Bertie Eld- 


OMBRA. 


277 


ridge had raised a discussion about some literary matter, and the 
two had gone to consult a book in the little anteroom, which served 
as a kind ot library; the other Bertie was left alone with Kate, 
a thing which had not nappened before for weeks. He went up 
to her the moment they were gone, and stood hesitating and 
embarrassed before her. 

“ Miss Courtenay, ’’ he said, and waited till she looked up. 

Something moved in Kate’s heart at the sound of his voice— some 
chord of early recollection — remembrances which seemed to her to 
stretch so far back —before the world began. 

“ Well, Mr. Hardwick?” she said, looking up with a smile. 
Why there should be something pathetic in that smile, and a little 
tightness across her eyelids, as if she could have cried, Kate could 
not have told; and neither can 1, 

” Are you pleased to go home?— is it with your own will? or did 
your uncle’s coming distress you?” he said, in a voice which was 
— yes, very kind, almost more than friendly; brotherly, Kate said 
to herself. 

” Distress me?” she said. 

“Yes; 1 have thought ycu looked a little troubled sometimes. 
1 can’t help noticing. Don’t think me impertinent, but 1 can’t bear 
to see trcuble in your face.” 

Kate made no reply, but she looked up at him; looked him 
straight in the eyes. Once more she did not know why she did it, 
and she did not think of half the meanings which he saw written 
in her face. He faltered; he turned away; he grew red and grew 
pale; and then came back to her with an answering look which did 
not falter; but for the re-entrance cf the others he must have said 
something But they came back, and he did not speak. If he had 
spoken, what would he have said? 

This gave a new direction to Kate’s thoughts, but still it was 
with a heavy heart that she entered Lady Oaryisfoit’s drawing- 
room, not more ihan a week after that evening when Antonio had 
asked for the violets, and she had hesitated whether she would give 
them. She had hesitated! It was this thought which made Uer so 
much ashamed. She had been lonely, and she had been willing to 
accept his heart as a plaything; and how could she say to him now, 
“lam no longer lonely. 1 am going home; and 1 could not take 
you, a stranger, back, to be master of Langton?” She could not 
say this, and what was she to say? Antonio Buoncompagni was 
not much more comfortable; he had been thoroughly schooled, ard 
he had begun to accept his part. He even saw, and that clearly, 


278 


OMBKA. 


that a pietty, independent bird in the hand, able to pipe as he 
wished, was better than a tlutlerina, uncertain fled^^ling in the 
bush; but he had a lively sense ot honor, and he had committed 
himselt. The young lady, he thought, ought, at least, to have the 
privilege of refusing him. “Go, then, and be refused — pazzo 
said his aunt. “ Most people avoid a refusal, but thou wishest it. 
It is a pity that thou shouldst not be satisfied.” But, having ob- 
tained this permission, the young count was not, perhaps, so ready 
to avail himself of it. He did not care to be rejected any more 
than other men, but he was anxious to reconcile his conscience to 
his deserticn; and he had a tender sense that he himself- -Antonio 
— was not one to be easily forgotten. He watched Kate from the 
moment of her entry, and persuaded himself that she was pale. 
*■ Poverina!'^ he said beneath his mustache. Alas! the Bacr.ifice 
must be made; but then it might be done in a gentle way. 

The evening, however, was half over before, he had found his 
w^ay to her side—a circumstance which filled Kate wdth wonder, 
and kept her in a curious suspense; for she could not talR freely to 
any one else while he was within sight, to whom she had so much 
(she thought) to say. He came, and Kate was confused and troubled. 
Somehow she felt he was changed. "Was he less handsome, less 
tall, less graceful? What had happened to him? Surely there was 
something. He was no longer the young hero who had dropped 
on his knee, and kissed her hand for Italy. She was confused, 
and could not tell how it was. 

“ You are going to leave Florence?” he said. “ It is sudden— it 
is too sad to think of. Miss Courtenay, 1 hope it is not you who 
wish to leave our beautiful Italy — you, who have understood her 
so well?” 

“No, It is not 1,” said Kate. “ 1 should not have gone of my 
own free will; but yet 1 am very willing— 1 am ready to go— it is 
home,” she added hastily, and with meaning. “ It is the place I 
love best in the world.” 

“ Ah!” he said, “ i had thought— 1 had hoped you loved Italy 
too.” 

“Oh! so 1 do. Count Buoncompagni — and 1 tiiought 1 did still 
more,” cried the girl, eager to make hex hidden and shy, yet brave 
apology. “ 1 thought 1 could have lived and died here wdiere peo- 
ple were so good to me. But, you know, whenever 1 heard the 
name of home, it made my blood ail dance in my veins. 1 felt 1 
had been making a mistake, and that there was nothing in the 
woi id 1 loved like Langton-Courtenay. I made a great mistake, 


031B1{A. 


27‘J 

but 1 did not mean it. 1 hope nobody will think it is unkind of 
me, or that 1 am fond of change.” 

Count Antonio stood and listened to this speech with a grim 
smile on his face, and a look in his eyes which was new to Kate. 

He, too, was making a disagreeable discovery, and he did not like 
it. He made her a bow, but he did not make any answer. He 
stood by her side a few moments, and then he asked her suddenl}’, 
‘‘May 1 get you some tea?— can I bring you anything?” with a 
forced quietness; and when Kale said ” No,” he went away, and 
devoted himself for all the rest of the evening to Lady Caryisfort, 
There was pique in his manner, but there was something more, 
which she could not make out; and she sat rather alone for the rest 
ol the evening. She was left to feel her mistake, to wonder, to be 
somewhat offended and affronted; and Went back to the Lung- 
Arno impatient to hurry ovei all the packing, and get home at 
once. But she never found out that in thus taking the weight of 
the breaking off on her shoulders, she had saved Count Antonio a 
gieat deal of trouble. 

When Lady Caryisfoit found out what had passed, her amuse- 
ment was very great. ” She will go now and think all her life that 
she has done him an injuiy, and broken his heart, and all kinds of 
nonsense,” she said to herself. ” Poor Antonio! what a horrible 
thing money is! But he has escaped very cheaply, thanks to Kate, 
and she will make a melancholy hero of him, poor dear child, tor 
the rest of her life.” 

In this, however. Lady Caryisfort, not knowing all the circum- 
stances, was wrong; for Kate felt vaguely that there was something 
more than the honorable despair of a young Paladin in her count’s 
acceptance of her explanation. He accepted it too readily, with 
too little attempt to resist or remonstrate. She was more angry 
than pitiful, ignorant as she was. A man who takes a woman 
entirely at her first word almost insults her, even though the sepa- 
ration is her own doing. Kate tell this vaguely, and a hot blush 
rose to her cheek for two or three days after, at the very mention 
of Antonio’s name. 

The person, however, who felt this breaking off most was old | 
Francesca, who had gone to an extra mass for weeks back, to pro- | 
mote tne suit she had so much at heart. She cried herself &ick I 
when she saw it was all over, and said to herself she knew seme- | 
thing evil would happen as soon as il vecchio came. 11 'oeccliio's | 
appearance was always the signal for mischief. He had come, and |>| 
now once more the party was on the wing, and she herself was to i 


280 


OMBKA. 


be torn from her native place, the Florence she adored, for this old 
man's caprice. Francesca thought with a little tierce satisfaction 
that, when his soul went to purgatory, there would be nobody to 
pray him out, and that his penance would be long enough. The 
idea gave her a great deal of satisfaciion. She would not help him 
out, she was certain— not so much as by a single prayer. 

But all the time she got on with her packing, and the ladies be- 
gan to frequent the shops to buy little souvenirs of Florence. It 
was a busy time, and there was a great deal of movement, and so 
much occupation that the members of the little party lost sight of 
each other, as it were, and pursued their diSerent prepaiations in 
their own way. “ She is packing," or, “ she is shopping," was 
said, first of one, and then of another, and no further questions 
were asked. And thus the days crept on, and the time approached 
when they were to set out once more on the journey home. 


CHAPTER LI. 

Yes, packing, without doubt, takes up a great deal of time, and 
that must have been the reason why Mrs. Anderson and Ombra 
were so much occupied. They had so many things to do. Fran- 
cesca, of course, was occupied with the household; she did the 
greater part of the cooking, and superintended everything, and 
consequently had no time for the manifold arrangements — the se- 
lection of things they did not immediately want, which were to he 
sent oft direct from Leghorn, and of those which they would re- 
quire to carry with them. And in this work the ladies toiled some- 
times for days together. 

Kate had no occasion to make a slave of herself. She had Mary- 
anne to attend to all her immediate requirements, and, in her own 
person, had nothing better tc do than to sit alone, and read, or gaze 
out of the window upon the passengers below, and the brown Arno 
running bis course in the sunshine, and the high roofs blazing into 
the mellow light on the other side, while the houses below were 
in deepest shadow. Kate was too young, and had too many re- 
quirements, and hungers of the heart, to enjoy this scene f3r it- 
self so much, perhaps, as she ought to have done. Had there 
been somebody by to whom she could have pointed out, or who 
would have pointed out to her, the beautiful gleams of color and 
sunshine, 1 have no doubt her appreciation of it all wculd have 
been much greater. As it was, she felt very solitary; and often 


OMBRA. 


281 


after, when life was running low with her, her imagination would 
bring up that picture of the brown river, and the house-tops shining 
in the sun, and all the people streaming across the Ponte della 
Trinita, to the other side of the Arne — stranger people, whom she 
did not know, who were always coming and going, coming and 
going. Morning made nc difference lo them, nor night, nor the 
cold days, nor the rain. They were always crossing that bridge. 
Oh! what a curious, tedious thing' life was, Kate thought — always 
the same thing over again, year after year, day after day. It was 
so still that she almost heard her own breathing within the warm, 
low room, where the sunshine entered so freely, but where nothing 
else entered all the morning, (^xcept herself. 

To be sure, this was only for a few days; but, atter all. what a 
strange end it was to the life in Florence, which had begun so 
differently. In the afternoon, to be sure, it was not lonely. Her 
uncle would come, and Lady Caryisfort, and the Berties, but not so 
often as usual. They never came when Mr. Courtenay was ex- 
pected; but Kate felt, by instinct, that when she and her uncle 
were at Lady CaryisforPs, the two young men reappeared, and the 
evenings were spent very pleasantly. What had he done to be thus 
shut out? It was a question she could not answ'er. ]Sow and 
then the young clergyman would appear, who was the friend of 
Bertie Eldridge, a timid young man, with light hair and troubled 
e3^es. And sometimes she caught Bertie Hardwick looking at her- 
self with a melancholy, anxious gaze, which she still less under- 
stood. Why should he so regard her? she was making no com- 
plaint, no show of her own depression; and why should her aunt 
look at her so wistfully, and beg her pardon in every tone or gest- 
ure? Kate could not tell; but the last week was hard upon her, 
and still more hard was a strange accident which occurred at the 
end. 

This happened two or three days before they left Florence. She 
was roused early, she did not know how, by a sound which she could 
not identify. Whether it was distant thunder, which seemed un- 
likely, or the shutting of a dcor close at hand, she could not tell. 
It was still dark of the winter morning, and Kate, rousing up, 
heard some early street cries outside, only to be heard in that morn- 
ing darkness before the dawn, and felt something in the air, she 
could not tell what, which excietd her. She got up, and cautiously 
peered into the anteroom out of which her own room opened. To 
her wonder she saw a bright fire burning. Was it late, she thought? 
and hastened to dress, thinking she had overslept herself. But 


283 


o:^rBRA. 


when she had finished hei morning toilet, and came forth to warm 
her cold fingers at that fire, there was still no appearance of any 
one stirring. What did it mean? The shutters were still closed, 
and everything was dark, except this brisk fire, which must hav^e 
been made up quite recently. Kate had taken down a book, and 
was about to make herself comfortable by the fireside, when the 
sound of some one coming startled her. It was Francesca, who 
looked in, with her warm shawl on. 

“ 1 thought 1 heard some one,’' said Francesca. “ Mees Katta, 
you haf give me a bad fright. Why do you get up so early, with- 
out warning any one? 1 hear the sound, ana I say to myself, my 
lady is ill— -and behold it is only Mees Katta. It does not show edu- 
cation, waking poor peoples in ze cold out of their good warm bet.” 

“ But, Francesca, 1 heard noises too; and what can be the mat- 
ter?” said Kate, becoming a little alarmed. 

“Ah! but there is nosing the matter. Madame sleep— she would 
not answer even when I knocked. And since you have made me 
get up so early, it shall be tor ze good of my soul, Mees Katta. I 
am going to mass.” 

“Oh! let me go too,” said Kate. “ 1 have never been at church 
so early. Don’t say a w’oid, Francesca, because 1 know my aunt 
will not mind. 1 will get my hat in a minute. See, 1 am ready.” 

“ The signorina will always have her way,” said Francesca; and 
Kate found herself, before she knew, in the street. 

It was still dark, but day was breaking; and it was by no means 
the particularly early hour that Kate supposed. There were no 
fine people certainly about the streets, but the poorer population 
was all awake and afoot. It was very cold— the beginning of 
January— the very heart of winter. The lamps were being extin- 
guished along the streets; but the colii glimmer cf the day neither 
warmed nor cleared the air to speak of; and through that pale 
dimness the great houses rose like ghosts. Kate glanced round her 
with a shiver, taking in a strange wild vision all in tints of gray 
and black, of the houses along the side of the Arno, the arched line 
of the bridge, the great dim mass of the other part of the town 
beyond, faint in the darkness, and veiled, indistinct figures still 
coming and going. And then she followed Francesca with scarce- 
ly a word, to the little out-of-the-w^ay church, with nothing in it to 
make a show, which Francesca loved, partly because it was hum- 
ble. For poor people have a liking tor those homely, mean, little 
places, where no grandeur of ornament nor pomp of service can 
ever be. This is a fact, explain it as they can, who think the at- 


OMBKA. 


283 


tractions of ritualistic arl and splendid ceremonial are the chief 
charms of the worship of Kome. 

Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a 
poor woman of her class in En<;land would find a Belhesda Chapel. 
But at this moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted 
altar blazing into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of 
the corners, and kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her 
head was contused by the strangeness of the scene. She listened, 
and tried to join in what was going on, with that obstinate English 
Xjreiudice which makes common prayer a necessity in a church. 
But it was not common prater that was to be found here. The 
priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the solitary kneeling 
worshipers were having their private intercourse with God. as it 
were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca 
crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, 
scarcely capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pon- 
dered and wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring 
stranger; poor unknown people, snatching a moment from their 
work, market-people, sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants,, 
the lowliest of the low; but morning after morning their feeble 
candles twinkled into the dark, and they knelt upon the damp 
stones in the unseen corners. How strange it was. Not like En- 
glish ideas — not like the virtuous ladies who patronized the daily 
service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great yearning toward 
those badly dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of garlic. 
She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like the 
last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. 
And when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled 
irom her thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little gray 
church was all full of the splendor of the morning, the candles 
put to flight, the priest’s muttering over. 

“ If my young lady will come this way,” whispered Francesca, 
“ she will be able to kiss the shrine of the fameus Madonna— she 
who stopped the cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt 
Agnese, of the Beparazione, was so much beloved.” 

”1 would rather kiss you, Francesca,” cried Kate, in a little 
transport, audible, so that some praying people raised their heads 
to look at her, ** for you are a good woman.” 

She spoke in English; and the people at their pra^^ers looked 
down again, and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful 
for an English visitor to talk loud in a church. 

It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was 


284 


OMBKA. 


eay. The sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, 
lor it was no longer early; it was half past eight o’clock, and al- 
ready the forenoon had begun in that early Italian world. As they 
returned to the Lung- Arno the river was sparkling in the light, 
and the passengers moving quickly, half because of the cold, and 
half because the sun was so warm and exhilarating. 

“ My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,” said Kate, with 
a little laugh of superiority ; w^hen suddenly she fejt herself clutched 
by Francesca, and looking round suddenly stopped short also in the 
uttermost amaze. In front cl her, walking along the bright street, 
were the two whom she had just named— her aunt and Ombra— 
and not alone. The two young men were walking with them — one 
with each lady, Ombra was clinging to the arm of the one by her 
side; and they all kept close togeher, with a half guilty, half clan- 
destine air. The sight of them filled Kate with so much consterna- 
tion as well as wonder, that these particulars recurred to her after- 
ward, as do the details of an accident to those who have been too 
painfully excited to observe them at the moment of their occurrence. 

Francesca clutched her close and held lier back as the group 
w^ent on. Ihey passed, almost brushing by the two spectators, yet 
in their haste perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to 
rush forward and join herself to the party, as the old woman 
feared. After a moment’s interval the two resumed their walk, 
slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it mean? Perhaps Fran- 
cesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she was not in 
the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had re- 
covered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held 
her back. 

“ They must know that we have seen them,” she said over and 
over to herself, with a parched throat. 

And when the door was reached the two parties met. It was 
Ombra who made the. discovery first. She had turned round upon 
her companion to say some word of parting; her face was pale, 
but full of emotion; she was like one of the attendant saints at a 
martyrdom, so pale was she, and with a strange look of trance 
and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate behind, Ombra was 
strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without another world 
ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned sud- 
denly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door 
of the house, and faced the new-comers. 

“What, Katel” she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘*is it 


OMBEA. 


285 


you? What has brought yc u out so early— and with Francesca, 
too?’; 

“You too are out early, aunt.” 

“That is true, but it is not an answer,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
with a flush that rose over all her face. 

And the two young men stood irresolute, as if they did not know 
whether to go or slay. Bertie Eldridge, it seemed to Kate, wore 
his usual indifferent look. He was always llase and lai^guid, and 
dii not give himselt much Iroulle about anything; but Bertie Hara- 
wick was much agitated. He turned w'hite, and he turned red, 
and he gave Kate looks which she could not understand. It seemed 
to her as if he were always trying to apologize and explain with 
his eyes; and what right had Bertie Hardwick to think that she 
wanted anything explained, or cared what he did? She was angry, 
she did not quite know why— angry and wounded— hurt as if some 
one had struck her, and she did not care to stop and ask oi answer 
questions. She followed Mrs. Anderson upstairs, listening doubt* 
fully to Francesca’s voluble explanation — how mademoiselle had 
been disturbed by some sounds in the house, “ possibly my lady 
herself, though 1 was far from tliinking so when 1 left,” said Fran- 
cesca, pointedly; and how Mees Kutta had insisted upon noing to 
mass with her— 

Mrs. Anderson shook her head, but turned round to Kate at the 
door with a softened look, which had something in it akin to Ber- 
tie’s. She kissed Kate, though the girl half averted her face. 

“ 1 do not blame you, my dear, but your uncle might not like it. 
You must not go again,” she said, thus gently placing the inferior 
matter in the first place. 

And they went in, to find the fiie in the ante-room burning all 
alone, as when Kate had left, and the calm little house looking in 
its best order, as if nothing had ever happened there. 


chapter Lll. 

That was a curious day — a day full of strange excitement and 
suppressed feelinsf — suppressed on all sides, yet betiayingltself in 
some inexplairiable way. Mrs. Anderson made no explanation 
whatever of her early expedition— at least, to Kate; she did not 
even refer to it. She gave her a little lecture at breakfast, while 
they sat alone together — for Ombra did not appear — about the in- 
expediency of going with Francesca to church. “ 1 know that you 
did not irean anything, my darling,” she said, tendeily; “but it 


286 


OMBEA. 


is very touching to see the poor people at their prayers, anti 1 have 
known a girl to be led away so, aud to desert her own church. 
Such an idea must never be entertained for you; you are not a 
private individual, Kate — you are a woraan with a great slake in 
the country, an example to many—” 

” Oh! 1 am so tired ot hearing that 1 have a stake in the coun- 
try!” cried Kate, who at that moment, to tell the truth, was sick 
ot everything, and loathed her lite heartily, and everything she 
heard aud saw. 

‘‘ But that 18 wrong,” said IMis. Andeison. ‘‘ You must not be 
tired of such an honor and privilege. You must be aware, Eate, 
that an ordinary girl of your years would not be considered and 
studied as you have been. Had you been only my dear sister’s 
child, and not the mistress of Langton-Courtenay, even 1 should 
have treated you differently; though, tor your own good,” Mrs. 
Anderson added, ” 1 have tried as much as possible to forget your 
position, and Icok upon you as my younger child.” 

Kate’s heart was full— full ot a yearning for the old undoubting 
love, and 3 ^et a sense that it had been withdrawn from her by no 
fault of hers, which made it impossible tor her to make overtures 
of tenderness, or even to accept them. She said, ” 1 like that best;” 
but she said it low, with her eyes fixed upon her plate, and her 
voice choking. And perhaps her aunt did not hear. Mrs. Ander- 
son had deliberately mounted upon her high herse. She had in- 
voked, as It were, the assistance of her chief weakness, and was 
making use of it freely. She said a good deal more about Kate’s 
position— about the necessity of being faithful to one’s church, not 
onl}'' as a religious, but a public duty; and thus kept up the discus- 
sion till breakfast was fairly over. Then, as usual, Kate was left 
alone. Francesca had a private interview after in her mistress’s 
room, but what was said to her was never known to any one. She 
left it looking as if tears still lay very near her eyes, but not a word 
did she repeat of any explanation given to her— and, indeed, 
avoided Kate, so that the girl was left utterly alone in the very 
heart of that small, and once so tender, household. 

And thus life went on strangely, in a mist of suppressed excile- 
ment, for some days. How her aunt and cousin spent that time 
Kate could not tell. She saw little of them, and scarcelv cared to 
note what visits they received, or what happened. In the seclusion 
ot her own room she heard footsteps coming and going, and un- 
usual sounds, but took no notice; and, from that strange moining 
encounter, saw no more of the Bellies, until they made their ap- 


OMBKA. 


2S7 


pearance suddenly one day in Ihe lorenoon, when Mr. Courtenay 
was there; when they announced their immediate depat ure, and took 
their leave at one and the same moment. The parting was a strange 
one; they all shook hands stiffly with each other, as if they had been 
mere acquaintances. They said not a word of meeting again, and 
the young men were both agitated, looking pale and strange. When 
they left at last, Mr. Courtenay, in his airy way, remarked that he 
did not think Florence had agreed with them. “ The}' look as if 
they were both going to have the fever,” he said: ” though, by the 
bye, it is in Rome people have the fever, not in Florence.” 

“ 1 suppose they are sorry to leave,” said Mrs. Anderson steadily; 
and then the subject dropped. 

It seemed to Kate as if the world went round and round, and 
then suddenly settled back into its place. And by this time all was 
over— everything had stopped short. There was no more shopping, 
nor even packing. f'rancesca was equal to everything ^Ihat re- 
mained to be done; and the moment of their own departure drew 
near. 

Ombia drew down her veil as they were carried away out of 
sight of Florence on the gentle bit of railway which then existed, 
going to the n6rtb. And Mrs. Anderson looked back upon the 
town with her hands clasped tight together in her lap, and tears in 
her eyes. Kate noted both details, but even in her own mind drew 
no deductions from them. She herself was confused in her head 
as well as in her heart, bewildered, uncertain, walking like some 
one in a dream. The last person she saw in the railway-station 
was Antonio Buoncompagni, with a bunch of violets in his coat. 
He walked as far as he could go when the slow little train got itself 
into motion, and took oft his hat, with a little gesture which went 
to Kate’s heart. Poor Antonio! had she perhaps been unkind to 
him, after all? There was something sad, and yet not painful 
—something almost comforting in the thought. 

And so they were really on their way again, and Florence was 
over like yesterday when it is past, and like a tale that is told! 
How strange to think so! A place never perhaps to be entered 
again — never, certainly, with the same feelings as now. Ombra’s 
veil was down, and it was thick, and concealed her, and tears stood 
in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes. They had their own thoughts, too, 
though Kate had no clew to them. No clew! Probably these 
thoughts dwelt upon things absolutely unknown to her— probably 
they, too, were saying to themselves, ” How strange to leave Flor- 


288 


OMBEA. 


ence in the past— to be done with it!” But had they left it hi the 
past? 

As for Mr. Courtenay, he read his paper, which he had just re- 
ceived from England. There was a debate in it about some object 
w'iiich interested him, and the *' Times '' was full of abuse of 
some of his friends. The old man chuckled a little over this, as 
he sat on the comfortable side, with his back toward the engine, 
and his rug tucked over his knees, lie did not so much as give 
Florence a glance as they glided away. What w^as Hecuba to Lim 
01 he to Hecuba? Nothing had happened to him there. Nothing 
happened to him anywhere— though his Ward gave him a good deal 
of trouble. As for this journey of his, it was a bore, but still it 
had been successful, which was something, and he made Uimselt 
extremely comfortable, and read over, as they rolled leisurely along, 
every word of the “ Times.’' 

And thus they traveled home. 


CHAPTER Bill. 

It is a curious sensation to return, after a long Interval, to the 
home of one’s youth, especially if one has had veiy great ideas oi 
that home, and thought it magnificent. Even a short absence 
changes most curiously this first conception of grandeur. When 
Kate ran into Langton-Courtenay on her return, rushing through 
the row of new servants, who bowed and courtesied in the hall, her 
sense of mortificaticn and disappointment was intense. Eveiy- 
thing had sUrunkeri somehow; the rooms were smaller, the ceilings 
lower, ihe whole place diminished. Were these the rooms which 
she had compared in her mind with the suite in which the English 
embassadress gave her ball? Kate stood aghast, blushing up to 
the roois of fier hair, and felt so mortified that she did not remem- 
ber to do the honors to her aunt and cousin. When she recollected, 
slie went back to where tney had placed themselves in the great old 
hall, round the great fire-place. There was a comfortable old- 
fashioned seitle by it, and on this Mis. Anderson ha.1 seated her- 
self, to warm her frozen fingers, and give Kate time to recover her- 
self. 

“ 1 have not the least doubt we shall find ereiything very com- 
fortable,” she said to the new housekeeper, who stood before her, 
couriesying in her rustling silk gown, and wondering already wheth- 
er she was to have three mistresses, or which was to be the ‘‘ lady of 


OMBRA. 


289 


the house. '' Mrs. Spigot felt instinctively that the place was net 
likely to suit her, when Kate ran against the new house-maici, and 
made the new butiei (Mr. Spigot) tall back out ot her way. This 
was not a dignified beginning for a young lady coming home; and 
if the aunt was to be mistiess, it was evident that the situation 
would not be What the housekeeper thought. 

“ My niece is a little excited by coming home,’' said Mrs. Ander- 
son. “ To-morrow Miss Courtenay will be rested, and able to 
notice you all.” And she nodded to the servants, and waved her 
hand, dismissing them. If a feeling passed through Mrs. Ander- 
son’s mind, as she did so, that this was truly the position that she 
ought to have filled, and that Kate, a chit of nineteen, was not 
halt so well endowed for it by nature as she herself would have 
been, who can blame her? She gave a sigh at this thought, and 
then smiled graciously as the servants went away, and felt that to 
have such a house, and so many servants under iier control, even 
provisionally, would be pleasant. The house-maids thought her a 
very affable lady; but the upper servants were not so enthusiastic. 
Mrs. Anderson had mounted upon her very highest horse. She 
had put away all Ihe vagaries of Italian life, and settled down into 
the very blandest of British matrons. She talked again about 
proper feeling, and a regard for the opinions of society. She had 
resumed all the caressing and instructive ways which, at the very 
beginning of their intercourse, she had adopted with Kate. And 
all these sentiments and habits came back so readily that there 
were moments in which she asked herself, ” Had she ever been in 
Italy at all?” But yes, alas, yes! Never, if she lived a thousand 
years, could she forget the three months just past. 

Kate came back with some confusion to the hall, to find Ombra 
kneeling on the great white sheepskin mat before the fire; while 
Mrs. Anderson sat benignly on the settle, throwing off her shawls, 
and loosing her bonnet. Ombra ’s veil was thrown quite hack; the 
ruddy glow threw a pink reflection on her face, and her eyes 
seemed to have thawed in the cheery, warm radiance. They were 
bright, and tnere seemed to be a little moisture in them. She held 
out her hand to her cousin, and drew her down beside her. 

” This is the warmest place,” said Ombra; ” and your hands are 
like ice, Kate. But how warm it feels to be at home iii England; 
and 1 like your house— it looks as if it had never been anything 
but a home.” 

It is delightful!— it is much larger and handsomer than 1 sup- 
posed,” said Mrs. Anderson, from the settle. *’ With such a place 
10 


290 


OMBKA. 


to come home to, dear, 1 think you may be pardoned a little sensa- 
tion of pride.” 

“Oh! do you think so?” said Kate, gratified. “1 am so very 
glad you like it. It seems to me so insignificant, after all we have 
seen. 1 used to think it was the biggest, the finest, the most de- 
lightful house in the world; bat if you only knew how the roofs 
have come down, and the rooms have shrunk! 1 feel as if 1 couJd 
both laugh and cry. ” 

” That is quite natural—quite natural. Kate, 1 have sent the 
seivants away. 1 thought you would be belter able to see them to- 
morrow,” said Mrs. Anderson. ‘‘ But when you have warmed your- 
self, 1 think we may ask for Mrs. Spigot again, and go over the 
room^, and see which we are to live in. It will not be necessary to 
open the whole house for us three, especially in winter. Besides 
our bedrooms and the dining-room, 1 think a snug little room that 
we can make ourselves comfortable in— that will be warm, and 
not too large—” 

It pleased Mrs. Anderson to sit there, in the warmth and stillness, 
and make all these suggestions. The big house gave her a sensible 
pleasure. It was delicicus to think that a small room might be 
chosen for comfort, while there were miles of larger ones all at her 
orders. She smiled and beamed upon the two girls on the hearth. 
And indeed it was a pretty picture— Kate began to glow and 
brighten, with her hat off, and her bright hair shining in the fire- 
light. Her traveling-dress was trimmed round the throat with 
white fur, like a bird’s plumage, which caught a pink tinge too 
from the firelight, and seemed to caress her, nestling- against her 
pretty cheek. The journey, and the arrival, and all the excitement 
had driven awa*y, for the moment at least, all mists and clouds, 
and there was a pretty conflict in her face -half pleasure to be at 
home, half whimsical discontent with home. Ombra, with her 
veil quite back, and her face' cleared also of some other mystical 
veil, had her hand on Kate’s shoulder, and was looking at her 
kindly, almost tenderly; and one of Ombra’s cheeks was getting 
more than pink — it was crimscn in the genial glow; she held up 
her hand to shield it, which looked transparent against the fire- 
light. Mrs. Anderson looked very complacently, very fondly at 
both. Now that everything was over, she said to herself, and they 
had got Tiome, surely at least a little interval of calm might come. 
She shut her eyes and her ears, and refused to look forward, re- 
fused to think of the seeds sown, and the results that must come 
from them. She had been carried away to permit and even sanC' 


OMBRA. 


291 


tion many things that her conscience disapproved; but perhaps the 
Fates would exact no vengeance this time—peihaps all would go 
well. She looked at Ombra, and it seemed to her that her child, 
after so many agitations, looked happy— yes, really happy— not 
with feverish joy or excitement, but with a genial quiet, that be- 
longed to home. Oh! if it might be so? and why might it net be 
so? at least for a time. 

Mr. Courtenay had stayed in town, and the three ladies were 
alone in the heuse. They settled down in a few days, into ease 
. and comfort which, after their traveling, was very sweet. Things 
were different altogether from what they had been in the Shanklin 
cottage; and though Mrs. Anderson was in the place of Kate's 
guardian, yet Kate was no longer a child, to be managed for and 
ruled in an arbitrary way. It was now that the elder lady showed 
her wisdom. It was a sensible pleasure to her to govern the great 
house; here at last she seemed to have scope for her powers; but 
yet, though she ruled, she did so from the background; with heroic 
sel denial she kept Kate in the position she was so soon to occupy 
by right, trained her for it, guided her first steps, and taught her 
what to do. 

“ When you are of age, this is how you must manage,’' she 
would say. 

“ But when 1 am of age, why should not you manage for me?” 
Kate replied; and her aunt made no answer. 

They had come together again, and the old love had asserted it- 
self once more. The mvsteries unexplained had been buried by 
common consent. Kate lulled her own curiosity to rest, and when 
various questions came to the very lip of her tongue, she bit and 
stilled that unruly member, and made a not unsuccessful effort to 
restrain herself. But it was a hard discipline, and strained her 
strength. Sometimes, when she saw the continual letters which 
her aunt and cousin were always receiving, curiosity would give 
her a renewed pinch. But generally she kept herself down, and 
pretended not to see the correspondence, which was so much larger 
than it ever used to be. She was so virtuous even as not to look at 
the addresses of the letters. What good would it do her to know 
whe wrote them? Of course some must be from the Bertles, one, or 
both— what did it matter? The Bertles were ncthing to Kate; and, 
whatever the connection might be, Kate had evidently nothing to 
do with it, for it had never been told her. With this reasoning she 
kept herself down, though she was always sore and disposed to be 
c^oss about the hour of breakfast. Mrs. Anderson, for her part. 


292 


OMBRA. 


would never see the crossness. She petted Kate, and smoothed her 
down, and read out, with anxious conciliation, scraps from Lady 
Barker's letters, and others oi a similarly iudi derent character; 
while, in the meantime, the other letters, ones which were not in- 
ditferent nor apt for quotation, were read by Oinbra. The moment 
was always a disagreeable one for Kate— but she bore it, and made 
no sign. 

But to live side by side with a secret has a very curious effect 
upon the mind; it sharpens some faculties and deadens others in 
the strangest way. Kate had now a great many things to think of, 
and much to do; people came to call, hearing she had come home; 
and she made more acquaintances in a fortnight than she had done 
before in a year. And yet, notwithstanding this, 1 think it was 
only a fortnight that the reign of peace and domestic happiness 
lasted. Luring that time, she made the most strenuous effort a girl 
could make to put out of her mind the recollection that there was 
something in the lives of her companions that had been concealed 
from her. Sometimes, indeed, when she sat by her cousin's side, 
there would suddenly rise, up before her a glimpse of that group at 
the door-way on the Lung-Arno, and the scared look with which 
Ombra had rushed away; or some one of the many evening scenes 
when she was left out, and the other four, clustered about the ta- 
ble, would glide across her eyes like a ghost. W hy was she left 
out? What difference would it have made to them, if they had 
made her one cf themselves— was she likely to have betrayed their 
secret? And then Bertie Hardwick’s troubled face would come 
before her, and his looks, half-apologetic, half-explanatory; looks 
which, new she thought of them, seemed to have been so very 
frequent. Why was he always looKing at her, as if he wanted to 
explain; as if he were disturbed, and ill at ease; as if he felt her to 
be wronged? Though, of course, she was not in the least wronged, 
Kate said to herself, proudly; tor what was it to her it all the Ber- 
ties in the world had been at Ombra’s feel? Kate did not want 
them! Of that, at least, she was perfectly sure. 

Mrs. Anderson’s room was a large one; opening into that of Om- 
bra on the one side, and into an anteroom, which they could sit 
in, or dress in, or read and write in, for it was furnished for all 
uses. It was a petit apariement, charmingly shut in and cozy, one 
of the best set of rooms in the house, which Kate had specially 
chosen for her aunt. Here the mother and daughter met one night 
after a very tranquil day, over the hre in the central rocm. It was 
a bright fire, and the cozy chairs that stood before it were luxu- 


OMBRA. 


293 


rious, and the warm firelight flickered through the large room, upon 
the ruddy damask of the curtains, and the long mirror, and all the 
pretty furnishings. Ombra came in from her own room in her 
dressing-gown with her dusky hair over her shoulders. Dusky 
were her looks altogether, like evening in a winter’s twilight. Her 
dressing-gown was of a faint gray-blue— not a pretty color in itself, 
but it suited Ombra; and her long hair fell over it almost to her 
waist, bhe came in noiselessly to her mother’s room, and it was 
her voice which first betrayed her presence there. Mrs. Anderson 
had been sitting thinking, with a very serious face; she started at 
her child’s voice. 

“1 have been trying my very best to bear it— 1 think 1 have 
done my very best; 1 have smiled, and kept my temper, and tried 
to look as if 1 were not ready to die of misery. Oh! mamma, mam- 
ma, can this go on forever? What am 1 to do?” 

“ OU! Ombra, for God’s sake have patience!” cried her mother 
— ‘‘ nothing new has happened to-day?” 

“ Nothing new! is it nothing new to have those girls here from 
the rectory, jabbering about their brother? and to know that he is 
coming — next week, they say? We shall be obliged to meet — and 
how are we to meet? when 1 think how 1 took leave of him last! 
jVIy life is odious to me!” cried the girl, sinking down in a chair, 
and covering her face with her hands. ** 1 don’t know how to 
hold up my head and look those people in the face; and it is worse 
when no one comes. To live for a whole long, endless day with- 
out seeing a strange face, with Kate’s eyes going through and 
through me— ■’ 

” Don’t make things worse than they are,” said her molher. 
“Oh! Ombra, have a little patience! Kale suspects nothing.” 

“ Suspects!” cried Ombra— “ she knows there is something— not 
what it is, but that there is something. Do you think I don’t see 
her looks in the morning, when the letters come? Poor Kate! she 
will not look at them; she is fnll of honor— but to say she does not 
suspect!” 

“ 1 don’t know what to say to satisfy you, Ombra,” said her 
mother. “ Did not 1 beg you on my knees to take her into ycur 
confidence? It would have made everything so much easier, and 
her so much happier.” 

“Oh! mamma, my life is hard enough of itself — don’t make it 
harder and harder!” cried Ombra; and then she laid down her 
head upon her mother’s shoulder and wept, l^oor Mrs. Anderson 
bore it all heroically; she kissed and soothed her child, and per- 


294 


OMBRA. 


snaded her that it could not last long— that Bertie would bring 
good news — that everything would be explained and atoned for in 
the end. “ There can be no permanent harm, dear— no permanent 
harm/’ she repeated, “ and everybody will be sorry and forgive.” 
And so, by degrees, Ombra was pacified, and put to bed, and for- 
got her troubles. 

This was the kind of scene which took place night after night in 
the tranquil house, where all the three ladies seemed so quietly 
happy. Kate heard nc echo of it through the thick walls and 
curtains, yet not without troubles of her own was tlie heiress. The 
intimation of Bertie’s coming disturbed her, tco. She thought she 
had got quite composed about the whole matter, willing to wait 
until the secret should be disclosed, and the connection between 
him and her cousin, whatever it was, made known. But to have 
him here again, with his wistful looks, and the whole mystery to 
be resumed, as if there had been no interruption of it — this was 
more than Kate felt she could bear. 


CHAPTER LIY. 

The news which had made so much commotion in the Hall came 
from the rectory in a very simple way. Edith and Minnie had 
come up to call. Their mother rather wished them to do so fre- 
quently. She urged upon them that it might demand a little 
sacrifice of personal feeling, yet that personal feeling was always 
a thing that ought to be sacrificed— it was a good moral exercise, 
iriespective of everything else; and Miss Courtenay was older, and, 
no doubt, more sensible than when she went away — not likely to 
shock them as she did then— and that it would be good for her to 
see a good deal of them, and pleasant for people to know that they 
went a good deal to the Hall. All this mass of reasoning was 
scarcely required, yet Edith and Minnie, on the ?vhole, were glad 
to know that it was their duty to visit Kate. They both felt deep- 
ly that a thing which you do as a duty takes a higher rank than a 
thing you do as a pleasure; and their visits might have taken that 
profane character, had not all this been impressed upon them in 
time. 

“ Ohl Miss Courtenay, we have such news,” said EdPh; and 
Minnie added, in a parenthesis (“We are so happy 1”). ‘‘ Dear 

Bertie is coming home for a few days. He wrote that be was so 
busy he could not possibly come, but papa insisted ” (“ 1 am so 


OMBRA. 


29b 


glad papa insisted,” from Minnie, who was the accompaniment^, 
” and so he is coming — just for two days. He is going to bring 
us the things he bought lor us at Florence.” (‘‘Oh! 1 do so want 
to see them!”) “You saw a great deal of him at Florence, d'id, 
you not?” 

“Yes, we saw him— a great many times,” said Kate, noticing 
under her eyelids, how Ombra suddenly caught her brealh. 

“ He used to mention you in his letters at first— only at first. 1 
suppose] you made too many friends to se^ much of each other.” 
(“ Bertie is such a fellcw for society. ”) “ He is reading up now 
for the bar. Perhaps you don't know that he has given up the 
church?” 

“1 think 1 heard him say so,” answered Kate. 

And then there was a little pause. The Hardwick girls thought 
their great news was received very coldly, and were indignant at 
the want of interest shown in “ our Bertie!” After awhile Edith 
explained, with some dignity; 

“ Of course, my brother is very important to us,” (“ He is just 
the very nicest boy that ever was!” from Minnie), “ though we 
can’t expect others to take the same interest — ” 

Kate had looked up by instinct, and she caught Umbra’s eyes, 
which were opened in a curious little stare, with an elevation of the 
eyebrows which spoke volumes. Hot the same interest! Kate’s 
heart grew a little sick, she could not tell why, and she turned 
away, making some conventional answer— she did not know what. 
A pause again, and then Mrs. Anderson asked, without looking up 
from her work, 

“ Is Mr. Hardwick coming to the rectory alone?” 

“ Oh, yes! At least, we think so,” said the two girls in one. 

“ 1 asK because he and his cousin were so inseparable,” said 
Mrs. Anderson, smiling. “We used to say that when one was 
visible the other could not be far oflE.” 

“Oh! you mean Bertie Eldridge,” said Edith. “ No, 1 am sure 
he is not coming. Papa does not like our Bertie to be so much 
with him as he has been. We do not think Bei tie Eldridge a nice 
companion for him,” said the serious young woman, who rather 
looked down upon the boys, and echoed her parents’ sentiments, 
without any sense of inappropriateness. “ No, we don’t at all like 
them to be so much together,’' said Minnie. Again Kate turned 
round instinctively. This time Ombra was smiling, almost laugh- 
ing, with quite a gay light in her eyes. 

“ Of course that is a subject beyond me,” said Mrs. Anderson. 


296 


OMBRA. 


“They seemed much attached to each other.*" And then the 
matter dropped, and the girls entered upon parish news, which left 
them full scope for prattle. Edith was engaged to he married to a 
neighboring clergyman, and accordingly she was more than ever 
clerical and parochial in all her ways of thinking; while Minnie 
looked forward with a flutter, half of fear and half of excitement, 
to becoming the eldest Miss Hardwick, and having to manage the 
Sunday-school and decorate the church by herself. 

“ What shall 1 do when Edith is married?’* was the burden cf 
all the talk she ventured upon alone. “ Mamma is so much oc- 
cupied, she can’t give very much assistance,” she said. “Oh! 
dear Miss Courtenay, if you would come and help me sometimes, 
when Editii goes away.” 

“ 1 will do anything 1 can,” said Kate, shortly. And the two girls 
withdrew at last, somewhat chilled by the want of sympathy. Had 
they but known what excitement, what commotio’^, their simple 
news carried into that still volcano of a house! 

He wa^ to come in a week. Kate schooled herself to be very 
strong, and think nothing of it, but her heart grew sick when she 
thought of the Florence scenes all over again— perhaps worse, for 
at Florence at least there were two. And t(» Ombra the day passed 
with feverish haste, and all her pretenses at tranquillity and good- 
humor began to fail in the rising tide of excitement. 

“ 1 shall be better again when he has gone away,** she said lo 
her mother. “But, oh! how can 1— how can I take it quietly? 
Could you, if you were in my position? Think of all the misery 
and uncertainty. And he must be coming for a purpose. He 
would not come unless he had something to say.” 

“ Oh! Ombra, if there was anything, why should it not be said 
in a letter?*’ cried her mother. “You have letters often enough. 
1 wish you would just put them in your pocket, and not read them 
at the breakfast-table. Y ou keep me in terror lest Kate should see 
the handwriting or something. After all our precautions—” 

“ Can you really suppose that Kate is so ignorant?” said Ombra. 
“ Ho you think she does not know well enough whom my letters are 
from?” 

“ Then, for God’s sake, if you think so, let me tell her, and be 
done with this horrible secret,” cried her mother. “ It kills me to 
keep up this concealment; and if you think she knows, why, why 
should it go on?” 

“You are so impetuous, mammal” said Ombra, with a smile. 

“ There is a great difference between her guessing, and direct in- 


OMBRA. 


297 


formation procured from ourselves. And how can we tell what 
she might do? She would interfere; it is her nature. You could 
not trust anything so serious to such a child.” 

‘‘Kate is not a child now,” said Mrs. Anderson. ‘‘And, oh! 
Ombra, if you will consider how ungrateful, how untrue, bow un- 
kind it is — ” 

‘‘ Stop, mamma!” cried Ombra, with a flush of angry color. 
‘‘ That is enough — that is a great deal too much— ungrateful! Are 
we expected to be grateful to Kate? You will tell me next to look 
up to her, to reverence hei — ” 

” Ombra, you have always been haid upon Kate.” 

“ It is not my fault,” cried Ombra, suddenly giving way to a 
little burst of weeping. ** It you consider how different her posi- 
tion is — All this wretched ccmplication— everything that has 
happened lately— would have been unnecessary if 1 had had the 
same prospects as Kate. Everything would have gone on easily 
then. There would have been no need for concealment — no occa- 
sion for deceit.” 

‘‘That is not Kate's fault,” said Mrs. Anderson, who was at 
her wit's end. 

‘‘Oh! mother, mother, don't worry me out of my senses. Did 
1 say it was Kate's fault? It is no one's fault. But all we poor 
miserables must suffer as if it were. And there is no help for it; 
and it is so hard, so hard to bear!” 

‘‘ Ombra, 1 told you to count the cost,” said Mrs. Anderson. ‘‘ 1 
told you it would be nc easy business. Y ou thought you had 
strength of mind for the struggle then.” 

‘‘ And it turns out that 1 have no strength of mind,” cried Om- 
bra, almost wildly. And then she started up and went to her own 
room agiin, where her mother could hear her sighing and moan- 
ing till she tell asleep. 

These night scenes look away from Mrs. Anderson's enjoyment 
of the great mansion and ihe many servants, and that luxurious 
room which Kale’s affection had selected for hei aunt. She sat 
over the fire when she was left alone, and would wonder and ask 
herself what would come of it, what could ever come of it, and 
whether it was possible that she should ever be happy again. She 
looked back with a longing which she could not subdue upon the 
humble days at Shanklin, when they were all so happy. The liitle 
liny cottage, the small rooms, all rose up before her. The draw- 
ing-room itself was not half sc large as Mrs. Anderson’s bedroom 
at Langton Courtenay. But what happy days those had been! She 


298 


OMBKA. 


was not an old woman, though she was Ombra*s mother. It was 
not cs if life was nearly over for her, as if she could look forward 
to a speedy end of all her trouDles. And she knew better than 
Ombra that somehow or other the world always exacts punishment, 
whether immediately or at an after period, from those who trans- 
gress its regulations. She said to herself mournfully that things do 
not come right in life as they do in story-books. Her daughter had 
taken a weak and foolish step, and she, too, had shared in the folly 
^ by consenting t<^ it. She had done so, she could not explain to 
herself why, in a moment of excitement. And though Ombra was 
capable of hoping that some wonderful chain of accidents might oc- 
cur to solve every difficulty, Mrs. Anderson was not young enough, 
or inexperienced enough, to think anything of the kind possible. 
Accidents happen, she was aware, when you do not want them, 
not when you do. When a catastrophe is foreseen and calculated 
upon, it never happens. In such a case, the most rotten vessel that 
ever sunk in a storm wdll weather a cyclone. Fate would not inter- 
fere to help; and when Mrs. Anderson considered how slowly and 
steadily the ordinary course of nature works, and how little it is 
likely to suit itself to any pressure of human necessity, her heart 
grew sick within her. She had a higher opinion of her niece than 
Ombra had, and she knew that Kate would have been a tower of 
strength and protection to them, besides all the embarrassment that 
would have been avoided, and all the pain and shame of deceit. 
But what could she do? The young people were stronger than she, 
and had overriden all her remonstrances; and now all that could 
be done was to carry on as steadily as pcssible— to conceal the se- 
cret— to hope that something might happen, unlikely though she 
knew that was. 

Ihus was this gentle household distracted and torn asunder; for 
there is no such painful thing in the world to cany about with one 
as a secret; it will thrust itselt to the surface, notwithstanding the 
most elal)orate attempts to heap trifles and the common routine of 
life over it. It is like a living thing and moves, or breathes, or 
cries out at the wrong moment, disclosing itself under the most 
elaborate covers; and finally, howsoever people may deceive them- 
selves, it is never really hidden. While we are throwing the em- 
broidered veil over it, and flattering ourselves that it is buiied in 
concealment dark as night, oui friends all the time are watching it 
throb under the veil, and wondering with a smile cr a sigh, accord- 
ing to their dispositions, how we can be so foolish as to believe 
that it is hidden from them. The best we can do for our secret is 


OMBKA. 


299 


to confuse the reality of it, most often making it look a great deal 
worse than it is. And this was what Ombra and her mother were 
doing, while poor Kate looked on wistful, seeing all their transpar- 
ent maneuvers; and a choking, painful sense of concealment was in 
the air— a feeling that any moment some volcano might burst 
forth. 

CHAPTER LY. | 

It was a week later before Bertie came. He was brought to call 
by his mother and sisters in great delight and pomp; and then there 
ensued the strangest scene, of which only half the company had 
the least comprehension. The room which Kate had chosen as their 
sittting-Toom was an oblong room, with another smaller one open- 
ing from it. This small room was almost opposite the fire-place in 
the larger one, and made a draught which some people — indeed, 
most people— objected to; but as the broad open door-way was 
amply curtained, and a great deal of sun came in along with the 
imaginary draught, the brightnes.s of the place won the day against 
all objections. The little room was thus preserved from the air of 
secrecy and retirement common to such rooms. No one could 
retire to flirt there; no one could listen unseen to conversations not 
intended for them. The piano was placed in it, and the writing- 
table under the broad recessed window, which filled the whole end 
of it. It was light as a lantern, swept by the daylight from side 
to side, and the two fires kept it as warm as it was bright. When 
Mrs. Hardwick sailed in, bearing under her convoy her two bloom- 
ing girls close behind her, and the tall brother towering over their 
heads, a more proud or happy woman could not be. 

“ 1 have brought my Bertie to see you,"' she said, all the serious- 
ness of that “ sense of duty which weighed upon her ordinary 
demeanor melting tor the moment in her motherly delight and 
pride. “He was so modest, we could scarcely persuade him to 
come. He thought you might think he was presuming on your 
acuaintance abroad, and taking as much liberty as it he had been 
an intimate — ” 

“ 1 think Mr. Hardwick might very well take as much liberty as 
that,” cried Kate, moved, in spite of herself, to resentment with 
this obstinate make-believe. Her aunt looked up at her with such 
pain in her eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of animals, who 
can make us no other protest. 

“ We are very glad to see Mr. Bertie again,” said Mrs, Ander- 


300 


OMBEA. 


son, holding out her hand to him with a smile, “ fie is a Shanklin 
acquaintance, too. 'We are old friends.” 

And he shook hands with all of them solemnly, his face turning 
all manner of colors, and his e}'es fixed on the ground. Ombra was 
the last to approach, and as she gave him her hand, she did not say 
a word; neither did she lift her eyes to lo< k at him. They stood 
^ by each other for a second, hand in hand, with eyes cast down, 
and a flush oL misery upon both Iheii faces. Was it merely mis- 
“•ery? It could not but be painful, meeting thus, they who had 
parted so differently; but Kate, who could not remove her eyes 
from them, wondered, out of the midst of the somber cloud 
which seemed to have come in with Bertie, and to have wrapped 
her round — wondered what other feeling might be in their minds? 
Was it not a happiness to stand together even now, and here? to 
be in the same room? to touch each other’s hands? Even amid all 
this pain of suppression and concealment, was there not something 
more in it? She felt as if fascinated, unable to withdraw her eyes 
from them: but they remained together only for a moment; and 
Bertie’s sisters, who did not think Miss Anderson of much import- 
ance, did not even notice the meeting. Bertie himself withdrew to 
Mrs. Anderson’s side, and began to talk to her and to his mother. 
The girls, disappointed, for naturally they would have preferred 
that he should make himself agreeable to the heiress, sat down by 
Kate. Ombra dropped noiselessly on a chair close to the door-way 
between the two rooms; and after a few minutes she said to her 
cousin, Will you pardon me if 1 finish my letter for the post?” 
and went into the inner room, and sat down at the writing table. 

“ She writes a great deal, doesn't she?” said Edith Hardwick. 
“ Is she literary. Miss Courtenay? I asked Bertie, but he could 
not tell me. 1 thought she w'ould not mind doing something per- 
haps for the ‘ Parish Magazine,’ ” 

“Edith does most of it herself,” said Minnie. (“ OhI Minnie, 
for shame!”) “And do you know. Miss Courtenay, she had 
something in the last ‘Monthly Packet.’” (“Please, don’t, 
Minnie, please! What do you suppose Miss Courtenay cares?”) 
“ 1 shall bring it up to show you next time 1 come.” 

“ Indeed, you shall do nothing of^tlie kind!” said Edith, blush- 
ing. And Kate made a pretty little civil speech, which would have 
been quite real and genuine, had not her mind been so occupied 
with other things; but with the drama actually before her eyes, 
how could she think of stories in the “Monthly Packet”? Her 
eyes went from one to the other as they sat with the whole breadth 


OMBRA. 


301 


of the room between them; and this absorption made her look 
much more superior and lefty than she was in reality, or had any 
thought of being. Yes, she said to herself, it was best so — they 
could not possibly talk to each other as strangers. It was best that 
they should thus get out of sight of each other almost —avoid any 
intercourse. But how stranse it was! 

“ Don’t you think it is odd that Bertie, knowing the world as he 
does, should be so shy?’' said Edith. (“ Oh! he is sc shy!” cried 
Minnie.) “ He made as many excuses as a frightened little girl. 

‘ Th(5y won’t want to see me,' he. said. * Miss Courtenay will know 
it is not rudeness on my part if 1 don’t call. Why should 1 go and 
bother them?’ "We dragged him here!” 

“■\Ve dragged him by the hair of his head!” said Minnie, who 
was the wit of the family. 

And Kate did her best to laugh. 

“ 1 dirf not thinK he had been so shy,” she said. “ He wanted, 
1 suppose, to have you ail to himself, and not to lose his time mak- 
ing visits. How long is he to stay?” 

Edith and Minnie looked at each other. The question had al- 
ready been discussed between their mother and themselves whether 
Bertie would be asked to dinner, or whether, indeed, they might 
not all be asked, with the addition of Edith’s betrothed, who was 
visiting nlso at the rectory. They all thought it would be a right 
thing foi Kate to do; and, of course, as Mrs. Anderson was there, 
it would be bo easy, and in every way so nice. They looked at 
each other, accordingly, with a little consciousness. 

” He is to stay till Monday, 1 think,” said Edith; ” or perhaps 
we might coax him to give us another day, if — ” She was going 
to say it there was any reason, but that seemed a hint too plain. 

” That is not a very long visit,” said Kale. And, then, without 
a hint of a dinner-party, she plunged into ilie parish, that admir- 
able ground of escape in all difficulties. 

They had got into the very depths of charities, and coals, and 
saving-clubs, when Mrs. Hardwick rose. 

“We are such a large party, we must not inflict ourselves upt>xx 
you too long,” said Mrs. Hardwick. She, too, was a little dis- 
appointed that there was not a word about a dinner. ,She thought 
Mrs. Anderson should have known what her duty was in the cir- 
cumstances, and should have given her niece a hint; but 1 hope we 
shall all meet again before my son goes away.” 

And then there was a second shaking of hands. When all was 


302 


OMBRA. 


over, and the party were moving ofl, Kate turned to Bertie, who 
was last. 

“You have not taken leave of Ombra,” she said, looking full at 
him. 

He colored to his hair; he made her a confused bow, and hur- 
ried into the room where Ombra was. Kate, with a sternness 
which was very strange to her, watched the two figures against the 
light. Ombra did not move. She spoke to him apparently without 
even looking up from her letter. A dozen words or so— no more. 
Then there came a sudden cry from the other door, by which the 
mother and daughters were going out. 

“Oh! we have forgotten Miss Anderson!*’ and the whole stream 
flowed back. 

“ Indeed, it is Ombra ’s fault; but she was writing for the post,” 
exclaimed her mother calling to her. 

Ombra came forward tc the door* way, very pale, even to her 
lips, but smiling, and shook hands three limes, and repealed that 
it was her fault. And then the procession streamed away. 

“ That girl looks very unhealthy,” Mrs. Hardwick said, when 
they were walking down the avenue. “ 1 shall try and find out 
from her mother if there is consumption in the family, and advise 
them to try the new remedy. Did you notice whai a color her 
lips were? She is very retiring, poor thing; and 1 must say, never 
puts herself the least in the way.” 

“ Do you think she is pretty, Bertie?” said the sisters, together. 

“ Pretty? Oh, 1 can't tell. 1 am no judge.” said Bertie. 
“Look here, mamma, 1 am going to see old Stokes, the keeper. 
He used to be a great friend of mine. If 1 don’t make up to you 
before you reach home. I’ll be back at least bef( re it is dark.” 

“Before it is dark!” said Mrs. Hardwick, in dismay. But 
Bertie was gone. “ 1 suppose young men must have their way,” 
she said, looking after him. “ But you must not think, girls, 
that people are any the happier for having their way. On the 
contrary, you who have been educated to submit, have a much 
better preparation for rife. 1 hope dear Bertie will never meet 
with any serious disappointment,” she added with a sigh. 

••Oh! mamma, serious disappointment! when he has always suc- 
ceeded in everything!” ciied the girls, in their duet. 

“For he could not bear it,” said Mrs. Hardwick, shaking her 
head. “ It would be doubly, doubly hard upon him; for he has 
never been trained to bear it — never. 1 ma3’' say, since he left the 
nursery, and got out of my han<Ji ’ 


OMBEA. 


303 


A.t this time it was nearly three o’clock, a dull winter afternoon, 
not severe, but dim and mournful. It was the grayness of frost, 
however, not of damp, which was in tiie air; and Kate, who was 
restless, announced her intention of taking a long walk. She was 
glad to escape from this heavy atmosphere of home; she said, some- 
what bitterly, that it was best to leave them together to unbosom 
themselves, to tell each other all those secrets which were not to be 
ronfided to her; and to compaie notes, no doubt, as to how he 
was looking, and how they were to find favorable oppcrtunities of 
oreeting again. Kate’s heart was sore—she was irritated by the 
mystery which, after all, was so plain to her. She saw the secret 
thing moving underneath the cover— the only difficulty she had 
was to decide what kind of secret it was. What was the lelation- 
fihip between Bertie and Ombra? Weie they only lovers? were 
they something more? and what had Bertie Eldridge to do with it? 
7S.ate, indignant, would not permit herself to think; but the ques- 
tions came surging up in her mind against her will. She had a 
little basket in her hand. She was carrying some grape s and wine 
to old Stokes, the disabled keeper, who was dying, and whom 
everybody made much of. On her way to his cottage, she had to 
p?\ss that little nook where the brook was, and where she had first 
seen Bertie Hardwick. It was the first time she had seen it since 
her return, and she paused half in anger and bitterness, half with 
a softening swell of recollection. How lich, and sweet, and 
warm, and delicious it had been that summer evening, with the 
blossom still on the hawthorns, and the grass like velvet, and the 
soft little waterfall tinkling. How everything was changed! the 
bushes all black with frost, the trees bare of their foliage, with 
here and there a ragged red leaf at the end of a bow, the brook tink- 
ling with a sharp metallic SDund. Everything else was frozen and 
still — all the insect life of summer, all the movements and rustlings 
of grass and leaves and flowers. The flower and the leaves were* 
gone; the grass is bound fast in an icy boat. “ But not more differ- 
ent,"' Kate thought, “than were other matters— more important 
than the grass and flowers.’" 

She was roused from her momentary reverie by the sound of a 
footstep ringing clear and sharp along the frosty road; and before 
she could get out of the shelter of the little coppice which encircled 
that haunt of her childhood, Bertie Hardwick came suddenly up 
to her. The sight of her startled the young man— but in what 
way? A flush of delight rushed over his face— he brightened all 
over, as it seemed, eyes and mouth and every feature. He came 


304 


OMBRA. 


forward to her with impetuous steps, and took her hand before she 
was aware. 

“ 1 was thinking ot you,” he cried; “ longing to meet you Just 
here, not believing it possible— oh, Kate! Miss Courtenay, 1 beg 
your pardon. 1—1 forgot what 1 was going to say.” 

He did nol give up her hand, though; he stood and gazed at her 
with such pleasure in his eyes as could not be miscDnstrued. And 
then the most curious phenomenon came into being— a thing most 
wonderful, not to be explained. All the anger and the suspicion 
and the bitterness, suddenly, in a moment, fled out of Kate’s heart 
— they fled like evil spirits exorcised and put to flight by some- 
Ihing tetter than they. Kate was too honest to conceal what was 
in her mind. She did not draw away her hand; she locked at him 
full with her candid eyes. 

” Mr. Bertie, 1 am very glad to have met you here. 1 can’t help 
remembering; and 1 should be glad— very glad to meet you any- 
where; but—” 

He dropped her hand; he put up both his own to his face, as if 
to cover its shame; and then, with a totally changed tone, and a 
voice, from which all the gladness had gone, he said, slowly— 

‘‘Iknow; but 1 am not allowed to explain— 1 cannot explain. 
Oh! Kate, you know no harm of me, do you? You have never 
known or heard that I was without sense of honor? trust me, if 
you can! Nothing in it, not any one thing, is my fault.” 

Kate started as if she had been struck, and everything that had 
.wounded her came back in sevenfold strength. She could not keep 
even a tone of contempt out of her voice. 

J have heard, ’’she said, “ that there was honor among thieves; 
do you throw the blame upon Ombra— all the blame? 1 suppose it 
is the way men do. Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick!” And, before he 
could say a word, she was gone— flying past him, indignant, con- 
temptuous, wounded to the core. 

As she came back from the keeper’s cottage, when the afternoon 
was duller than ever, and the sky seemed to be dropping over the 
tree-tops, Kate thought she saw, in one of the roads which crossed 
the avenue, the flutter ot a lady’s shawl. The girl was curious in 
her excitement, ard .she paused behind a tree to watch. After a 
short time the fluttering shawl drew near. It was Ombra, clinging 
close to Bertie Hardwick’s arm — turning to him a pale face full of 
care and anxiety. They were discussing their dark concerns — their 
secrets. Kate rushed home without once stopping or drawing breath. 


OMBKA. 


305 


CHAPTER LVl. 

This incident passed as all incidents do, and the blank of com- 
mon life returned. How short those moments of action are in ex- 
istence, and how long are the dull intervals — those intervals which 
count for nothing, and yet are life itself! Bertie Hardwick went 
away only after sundry unsuccessful efforts on the part of his fam- 
ily to unite the party from the Hall with that at the rectory. Mis. 
Hardwick would willingly, very willingly, have asked them to 
dinner, even after I he disappointment of discovering that they did 
not mean to ask Bertie. IShe was stopped, however, by a very 
commonplace hinderance — where was she to find gentlemen enough 
on short notice to balance all those three ladies? Mr. Hardwick, 
Bertie, and Edith’s betrothed made the tale correct to begin with— 
but three more gentlemen in a country parish on two days’ notice! 
It was impossible. All that Mrs. Hardwick could do was to ask, 
deprecatingly, that the ladies would come to a family dinner, 
“ mry quiet,” she said; ‘‘ you must not suppose 1 mean a party.” 
Mrs. Anderson, with her best and most smiling looks, accepted 
readily. ‘‘ But Ombra is not very well,” she said: ” 1 fear 1 must 
ask you to excuse her. And dear Kate has such a bad cold— she 
caught it walking across the park the other evening to old Stokes 
the keeper’s cottage.” 

” To cld Stokes!” cried Mrs. Hardwick. ” Why, my Bertie was 
there too.” And she added, looking grave, after that burst of 
radiance, ‘‘ The old man was a great favorite with everybody. We 
all go to see him.” 

” So 1 hear,” said Mrs. Anderson, smiling; and next day she 
put on her best gown, pocr soul! and went patiently down to the 
rectory to dinner, and made a great many apologies for her girls. 
She did not enjoy it much, and she had to explain that the first chill 
of England after Italy had been toe much for Kate and Ombra. 
“We had lived in the Isle of Wight tor some years before,” she 
added, ” so that this is almost their first experience of the severity 
of winter. But a few days in-doors 1 hope will make them all 
right.” 

Edith Hardwick could not believe her eyes when, next day, the 
day before Bertie left, she saw Miss Anderson walking in the park. 
” Do you think it possible it was not true?” she and her sister 


306 


OMBEA. 


asked each other in consternation: but neither they, nor wiser per- 
sons than they, could have determined that question. Ombra was 
not well, ncr was Kate. They were both disturbed in their youth- 
tul being almost beyond the limits of self-control. Mrs. Anderson 
had, in some respects, to bear both their burdens; but she said to 
herself, with a sigh, that her shoulders were used to it. She had 
borne the yoke in her youth, she haa been trained to bear a great 
deal, and say very little about it. And so the emotion of the in- 
cident gradually died away, growing fainter and larger in the still- 
ness, and the monotony came back as of old! 

But, oh! how pleasant the monotony of old would have been, 
how delightful, had there been nothing but the daily walks, the 
daily talks, the afternoon driv^es, the cheerful discussions, and 
cheerful visits, which had made their simple life at Sbanklin so 
sweet. All that was over, another cycle ot existence had come in. 

1 think another fortnight had elapsed since Bertie’s visit, and 
everything had been very quiet— and the quiet had bean very in- 
tolerable. Sometimes almost a semblance of confidential intercourse 
would be set up among them, and Ombra would lean upon Kate, 
and Kate’s heart melt toward Ombra. This took place generally 
in the evening, when they sat together in the firelight, before the 
lamp was brought, and talked the kind ot shadowy talk which be- 
longs to that hour. 

“ Look at my aunt upon the wall!” Kate cried one evening, in 
momentary amusement. “ How gigantic she is, and how she nods 
and beckons at us!” Mrs. Anderson was chilly, and had placed 
her chair in front of the fire. 

She is no more a shadow than we all are,” said Ombra. 
** When the light conies, that vast apparition will disappear, and 
she will be herself. Kate, don’t you see the parable? We are all 
stolen out of ouiselves, made into ghosts, till the light comes.” 

” 1 don’t understand parables,” said Kate. 

” 1 wish you did this one,” said Ombra, with a sigh, ” for it is 
true.” And then there was silence for a time, a silence which 
Kate bioke by saying, 

” There is the new moon. 1 must go and look at her.” 

” Not thiough the glass, dear — it is unlucky,” said Mrs. Ander- 
son; but Kate took no notice. She went into the inner room, and 
watched the new moon through the great window. A cold, be- 
lated, baby moon, looking as if it had lost its way somehow in that 
blue waste of sky. And the earth looked cold, chilled to the heart, 
as much as could be seen ot it, the tree-tops cowering together, the 


OMBRA. 


307 


park frozen. She stood there in a reverie, and forgot about the 
time, and wheie she was. The bustle behind her of the lamp being 
brought in did not disturb Kate, and seeing her at the window, the 
servant who came with the lights discreetly forbore to disturb her, 
and left the curtains undrawn. But. from what followed, it was 
evident that nobody else observed Kate, and she was still deep in 
her musings, when she was siartled, and brought to insmnt life, by 
a voice which seemed to ring through the room to her like a 
trumpet-note of defiance. 

“ Mother, this can not go on!” Ombra cried out all at once. ” If 
it lasts much longer 1 shall hate her. 1 shall want to kill her!” 

” Ombra!” 

” It is true, 1 shall want to kill her! Oh! not actually with my 
hands! One never knows what one could do till one is tempted. 
Btill 1 think 1 would not touch her. But, God help us, mother, 
God help us! 1 hate her now!” 

” God help you, indeed, my unhappy child,” cried her mother. 
‘‘ Oh, Ombra, do you know you are breaking my heart?” 

” My own was broken first,” cried Ombra; and tnere was a fero- 
cious and wild force in what she said, which thrilled through and 
through the listener, now just beginning to feel that she should 
not be here, but unable to stir in her great liorror and astonish- 
ment. ” My own was broken first. What does it matter? 1 
thought 1 could brave everything; but to have him sent here for 
her sake— because she would be the most fit match for him!— to 
have her come again between him and me—” 

” She never came between him and you— poor Kate!— she never 
thought of him. Has it not been proved that it was only a fancy ? 
Oh! Ombra, how ungrateful, how unkind you are to her!” 

” What must 1 be grateful for?” cried Ombra. ‘‘ She has always 
been in my way, always! She came between you and me. She 
took half away from me of what was all mine. Would you hesi- 
tate, and dcubt, and trouble, as you do, if it were not for Kate? 
She has always been in my way! She has been my enemy, not my 
friend. If she did not really come between him and me, then 1 
thought so, and 1 had all the anguish and sorrow as if it had been 
true. And now he is to be sent here to meet her— and 1 am to put 
up with it, he says, as it will give us means of meeting. But 1 
will not put up with it!” cried Ombra, her voice rising shrill with 
passion — ‘‘ J can not; it is asking too much. 1 would rather not 
meel him than meet him to be watched by Kate’s eyes. He has no 


308 


OMBRA. 


right to come nere on such a pretense. 1 would rather kill her— 1 
would lather never see him again!’' 

“Oh! Ombra, how can you tell who may heai you?” cried her 
mother, putting up her hand as if to stop her mouth. 

“ 1 don’t caie who hears me!” said Ombra, pale and sullen. 

And then there was a rustle and movement, and both started, 
looking up with one impulse. In the twilight right beyond the cir- 
cle of the lamplight, white as death, with a piteous gaze that neither 
could ever forget, stood Kate. Mrs. Anderson sprung to her feet 
with a cry; Ombra said not a word— she sat back in her chair, aod 
kept her startled eyes upon her cousin— great dilated eyes, awak- 
ened all in a minute to what she had done. 

“ Kate, you have heard what she has said?” 

“ Yes, 1 have heard it,” she said faintly. “ 1 did not mean to; 
but I was there, and 1 thought you knew. 1 have heard every- 
thing. Oh! it does not matter. It hurts at present, but it will go 
off after a while.” 

She tried to smile, and then she broke down and cried. Mrs. 
Anderson went to her and threw her arms rouna her; but Kate put 
her aunt gently away. She looked up through her tears, and shook 
her head with the best smile she could muster. 

“ No, it is not worth while,” she said — “ not any more. 1 have 
been wrong all the time. 1 suppose God did not mean it so. 1 had 
no natural mother or sister, and you can’t get such things except 
by nature. Don’t let us say any more about it,” she added, hastily 
brushing the tears from her eyes. “1 am very sorry you have 
suffered so much on my account, Ombra. If 1 had only known — 
And 1 never came between you and any one — never dreamed of 
doing it — never will, never— you may be sure of that. 1 wanted 
my aunt to love me— that was natural — but no one else.” 

“ Kate, 1 did not mean it,” faltered Ombra, her white face sud- 
denly burning with a blush ot passionate shame. She had never 
realized the meanness ot her jealousies and suspicicns till this mo- 
ment. Her mother’s remonstrances had never opened her eyes; 
but in a moment, in this anguish of being found out, she found out 
herself, and saw through her cousin’s eyes, as it w^ere, how con- 
temptible it all was. 

“ 1 think you meant it. 1 don’t think you could have spoken so 
had not you meant it,” said Kate with composure. And then she 
sat down, and they all looked at. each other, Mrs. Anderson stand- 
ing before the two girls, wringing her hands. 1 think they realized 
what had happened belter than she did. Her alarm and misery 


OMBEA. 


309 


were great. This was a quarrel between her two children — a quar- 
rel which it was very dreadful to contemplate. They had never 
quarreled before; liltle misunderstandings might have arisen be- 
tween them, but these it was always possible to smooth down ; but 
this was a quarrel. The best thing to do, she felt, was that they 
should have it out. Thus for once her perception failed her. She 
stood frightened between them, looking from one to another, not 
certain on which side the volcano would burst forth. But no vol- 
cano burst forth; things had gone too far tor that. 

As for Kate, she did not know what had come over her. She 
had become calm without knowing: how. All her agitation passed 
away, and a dead stillness succeeded — a stillness which made her 
afraid. Two minutes ago her heart and body had been tingling with 
darts cf pain. She had felt the blow everywhere — on her head, 
which ached and rang as if she had been struck— -on her heart, 
which seemed all over dull pain— even in her limbs, which did not 
feel able to support her. But now all had altered; a mysterious 
numbness crept from her feet up to her heart and her head. She 
did not feel anything; she saw Ombra’s big, startled eyes straining 
at her, and Mrs. Anderson, standing by, wringing her hands; but 
neither the one nor the other brought any gleam of feeling to her 
mind. 

“ It is a pity we came here,” she said slowly—*' a great pity, for 
people will discuss everything— 1 s pposc they always do. And 1 
don’t know, indeed, what is best; 1 not prepared to propose any- 
thing; all seems dark to me. 1 can nc on standing in Ombra’s 
way — that is all 1 know. 1 will not do it. And perhaps, if we 
were all to think it over to-night, and tell what we think to-moirow 
morning — ” she said, with a smile, which was very faint, and a 
strong indication to burst forth instead into tears. 

‘‘Oh! my darling!” said Mrs. Anderson, bewildered by this ex- 
traordinary calm. 

Kate made a little strange gesture. It was the same With which 
she had put her aunt away. ” Don’t!” she said, under her breath. 
She could bear what Ombra had said after the first astonishing out- 
burst, but she could not bear that caressing— those sweet names 
which belong only to these who are loved. Don’t! A touch 
would have made her recoil— a kiss would have diiven her wild 
and raving, she thought. This was the horror of it all— not that 
they had quarrel^^d, hut that they had pretended to love her, and 
all the time had been hating her — or, at the best, had been keeping 
each other up to the mark by thought of the gratitude and kind* 


310 


OMBRA. 


ness they owed her. Kindness and gratitude!— and yet they had 
pretended to love. 

“ Pei haps it is better 1 should not say anything,” said Ombra, 
with another flush, which this time was that of rising anger. ” 1 
ought not to have spoken as 1 did, but 1 make no apologies— it 
would be foolish to do so. You must form your own opinion, 
and nothing that 1 could say would change it. Of course it is nc 
excuse to say that 1 would not have spoken as 1 did had X known 
you were there.” 

” 1 did not mean to listen,” said Kate, coloring a little. ” You 
might have seen me all the time; but it is best to say nothing at all 
now — none of us had better speak. We have to get through din- 
ner, which is a pity. But after that, let us think it over quietly — 
quite quietly — and in the morning we shall see better. There is no 
reason,” she said very softly, ” why, because you do not feel for 
me as 1 thought you did, we should quarrel; for really there is 
nothing to quarrel about. One’s love is not in one’s own gift, to 
be bestowed as one pleases. You have been very kind to me— very 
kind.” 

“Oh! Kate— oh! my dear child, do you think 1 don’t love you? 
Oh! Kate, do not break my heart!” 

” Don’t, aunt, please,” she said, with a shiver. ” 1 don’t feel 
quite well, and it hurts me. Don’t— any more— new!” 


CHAPTER 

That was the horrible sting of it— they had made believe to love 
her, and it had not been true. Kow love, Kate reflected (as she 
went slowly to her room, feeling, somehow, as if every step was a 
mile), was not like anything else. To counteileit any other emo- 
tion might be pardoned, but to counterfeit love was the last injury 
any one could do you. Pei haps it was the Jvound to her pride 
which helped the wound to her afliections, and made it so bitter. 
As she thought it all cvei, she reflected that she had, no dcubt, ac- 
cepted this love much too easily when she went first to her aunt’s 
charge. She had leaped into their arms, as it were. She had left 
them no room to understand what their real feelings were; she had 
taken it for granted that they loved her. She writhed under the 
humiliation which this recollection brought her. Alter all it was 
not, perhaps, they who were in the wrong, but she who had insist- 
ed on believing what they had never taken much pains to persuade 


OMBRA. 


811 


her of. After all, when she came to think of it, Ombra had made 
no pretense whatever. The very first time they met, Ombra had 
repulsed her— she was honest, at least! 

To be sure, Mrs. Anderson had been very caressing, but that was 
her nature. She said dear and darling to every child that came in 
her way— she petted everybody. Why, then, should Kate have 
accepted her petting as any sign of special love? It was herself 
that had been a vain fool, all along. She had taken it for granted; 
she had assumed it as necessary and certain that they Had loved 
her, and they, embarrassed by this faith, had been reluctant to 
hurt her feelings by undeceiving her; this was how it was. What 
stings, what tortures of pride and pain, did she give herself as she 
thought these things over? Gradually she pulled down all the 
pleasant house that had sheltered her these fcur — nearly five long 
years. She plucked it down with her hands. She laid her weary 
head on her little sofa beside the fire in her room, and watched the 
dickering shadows, and said to herself that here she was, back in 
the only home that belonged to her, alone as she had been when 
she left it. Four cold walls, with so much furniture, new un- 
known servants, who could not love her — who did not even know 
her; a cold, cold miserable world outside, and no cne in it to whom 
it would make the difference of a meal cr a night’s rest, whether 
she lived or died. Oh, cold, terrible, remorseless fate! back again 
in Langton-Courtenay, which, perhaps, she ought never to have 
left, exactly in the same position as when she left it. Kate could 
not find any solace in tears; they would not come. All her youth 
of heart, her easy emotions, her childish laughing and crying, were 
gone. The sunshine of happiness that had lighted up all the world 
with dazzling lights had been suddenly quenched. She saw every- 
thing as it was, natural and true. It was like the sudden enlight- 
enment which came to the dreamer in fairy-land; shriveling up all 
the beautiful faces, turning the gold into dross, and the sweetness 
into corruption. 

How far these feelings were exaggerated and overdone, the 
reader can judge. The spectator, indeed, always sees how much 
too far the bent Bow rebounds when the string is cut, and how far 
the sufferer goes astray in disappointment and grief, as well as in 
the extravagances of hope. But, unfortunately, the one who has 
to go through it never gets the benefit of that tranquilizing knowl- 
edge. And to Kale all that she saw now seemed too real— more 
real than anything she had known before — and her aesertion com- 
plete, She lay on her sofa, and gazed into the fire, and felt her 


312 


OMBEA. 


temples beating and her eyes blazing, but could not cry to relieve 
herself. "When Maryanne came upstairs to light her mistress's can- 
dles, and prepare her dress for dinner, she shrieked out 1o see the 
flashed face on the sofa-pillow. 

“ I have a headache— that is all. Don’t make a fuss,” cried poor 
Kale. 

” Miss Kate, you must he going to have a fever. Let me call 
Mrs. Anderson —let me send for the doctor,” cried the girl, in dis- 
may. But Kate exerted her authority, and silenced her. She sent 
her down-stairs with messages that she had a headache, and could 
not come down again, but was going to bed, and would rathei not 
be disturbed. 

Late in the everning, when Mrs. Anderson came to the door, 
Maryanne repeated the message. ”1 think, ma’am. Miss Kate’s 
asleep. She said she was not to be disturbed.” 

But Maryanne did not know how to keep this visitor out. She 
dared not oppose her, as she stole in on noiseless foot, and went to 
the bedside. Kate was lying with all her pretty hair in a mass on 
the pillow, with her eyes closed, and the flush which had frightened 
Maryanne still on hei face. Was she asleep? Mrs. Andeison 
would have thought so, but for seeing two big tear-drops just 
stealing from her closed eyelashes. She stooped over and kissed 
her softly on the forehead. ‘‘ God bless you, my dear child, my 
dear child!” she whispered, almost wishing she might not be heard; 
and then stole away to her own room, to the other child, much 
more tumultuous and exciting, who awaited her. Poor Mrs. An- 
derson ! of all the three she was the one who had the most to bear. 

Ombra was pacing up and down the large bedroom, so luxurious 
and wealthy, her breath coming quick with excitement, her whole 
flame full of pulses and tinglings of a hundred pains. iShe, toe, 
had gone through a sharp pang of humiliation; but it had passed; 
over, She was not lonely, like Kate. She had her mother to fall I 
back upon in the meantime; and even failing her mother, she had 
some one else, another who would support her, , upon whom she 
could lean, and who would give her moral baching and sympathy. 
All this makes a wonderful difference in the way people leccive a 
downfall. Umbra had been thunderstruck at first at her own 
recklessness, and the wounds she had given; but new a ceitain 
irritation possessed her, inflaming all the sore places in her mind, 
and they were not few. She Was walking up and down, thinking 
what she would do, what she would say, how she would no longer 
be held in subjection, and forced to consider Kate’s ways and 


OMBKA. 


313 


Kate’s feeliiiirs, Kate this and that. She was sorry she had said 
what she did— that she could avow without hesitation. She had 
not meant to hurt her cousin, and of course she had not meant 
really that she hated her, but only that she was irritated and un- 
happy, and not in a position to choose hei words. Kate was rich, 
and could have whatever she pleased, but Ombra had nothing but 
the people who loved her, and she could not bear any inerference 
with them. It was the parable of the ewe-lamb over again, she 
said to herself, and thus was exciting herself, and swelling her 
excitement to a higher and higher pitch, when her mother went in 
—her mothei, for whom all this tempest was preparing, and upen 
whom it was about to tall. 

“ 1 ou have been to see her, mamma! You never think of your 
own dignity! You have been petting her, and apologizing to her!” 

“ She is asleep,” said Mrs. Anderson, sitting down, and leaning 
her head on her hand. She did not feel able tor any more conten- 
tion. Kate, she felt sure, was not really asleep, but she accepted 
the semblance, that no more might be said. 

Ombra laughed, and though the laugh sounded mocking, there 
was a great deal of secret relief in it. 

“Oh! she is asleep! Did 1 not say she was no more than a 
child? She has got over it already. When she wakes up she will 
have forgotten all about it. How excellent those easy-going 
natures are! 1 knew it was only fer the moment. 1 knew she had 
no feelings to speak of. For once, mamma, you must acknowl- 
edge yourself in the wrong I’ ^ 

And Ombra sat down, too, with an immense weight lifted from 
her mind. She had not owned it even to herself, but the relief w^as 
so great that she felt now what her anxiety had been. “ Little 
foolish thing,” she said, “to be so heroical, and make such a 
noise—” Ombra laughed almost hysterically— “ and then to go to 
bed and fall asleep, like a baby! She is little more than a baby— 
1 always told you so, mamma.’' 

** Yon have always been wrong, Ombra, in your estimation of 
Kate, and you are wrong now. 'Whether she was asleep or not, 1 
can't say; she looked like it. But this is a very serious matter all 
the same. It will not be so easily got over as you think.” 

“ 1 don’t wish it to be got over!” ciied Ombra, “It is a kind 
of life 1 can not endure, and it ought not to be asked of me— it is 
too much to ask of me. You saw the letter. He is to be sent 
here, with the object of paying his addresses to her. because she is 
an heiress, and it is thought he ought to marry money.. To marry 


314 


OMBEA. 


—hei! Oh! mamma! he ought not to have said it to me. It was 
wicked and cruel to make such an explanation.” 

“ 1 think so, too,” said Mrs. Anderson, under her breath. 

“And he does not seena to be horrified by the thought. He 
says we shall be able to meet— Oh! mother, before this happens 
let us go away somewhere, and hide ourselves at the end of the 
earth!” 

“ Ombra, my poor child, you must not hide yourself. There 
are your rights to be considered. It is not that 1 don’t see how 
hard it is; but you must not be the one to judge him harshly. e 
must make allowancea. He was alone— he was not under good 
influence, when he wrote.” 

“ Oh! mother, and am 1 to believe of Mm that bad influences 
allect him so? That is making it worse — a thousand times worse! 
1 thought 1 had foreseen everything that there could be to bear; 
but 1 never thought of this.” 

“ Alas! poor child, hew little did you foresee!” said Mrs. Ander- 
son in a low voice—” not half nor quarter part. Ombra, let us 
take Kate’s advice. La nuit porte con8eil—\^\, us decide nothing 
to-night.” 

“ y ou can go and sleep, like ner,” said Omtra, somewhat bitter- 
ly. “1 think she is more like you than 1 am. You will say your 
prayers, and compose yourself, and go to sleep.” 

Mrs. Anderson smiled faintly. “Yes, 1 could have done that 
when I was as young as you,” she said, and made no other answer. 
She was sick at heart, and weary of the discussion. She had gone 
over the same ground so often, and how often soever she might go 
over it, the effect was still the same. For what could any one make 
of such a hopeless, dreary business? 

After all, it was Ombra, with all her passion, who was asleep 
the first. Her sighs seemed to steal through the room like ghosts, 
and sometimes a deeper one than usual would cause her mother to 
steal through the open door -way to see if her child was ill. But 
after a time the sighs died away, and Mrs. Anderson lay in the 
darkness of the long winter night, watching the expiring fire, which 
burned lower and lower, and listening to the wind outside, and ask- 
ing herself what was to be the next chapter— where she was to go and 
what tD do. She blamed herself bitterly for aU that had happened, 
and went over it step by step and asked herself how it could have 
been helped. Of itself, had it been done in the light of day, and with 
consent of all parties, there had been no harm. She had her child’s 
happiness to consider chiefly, and not the prejudices of a family 


OMBRA. 


315 


with whom she had no acquaintance. How easy it is to jnstity 
anything that is done and can not be undone I and how easy and 
natural the steps seem by which it was brought about! while all 
the time something keeps pricking the casuist, whispering, “ 1 told 
you so — 1 told you so.” Yes, she had not been without her w’arn- 
ings; she had known that she ought not to have given that consent 
which had been wrung from her, as it were, at the sword’s point. 
She had known that it was weak of her to let principle and honor 
go, lest Ombra’s cheek should be pale, and her lace averted from 

, her mother. 

' “It was not Ombra’s fault,” she said to herself. “It was 
natural that Ombra should do anything she did; but 1, w^ho urn 
older, who know the world, 1 should have known better— 1 should 
have had the courage to bear even her unhappiness, for her good. 
Oh, my poor child! and she does not know yet, bad as she thinks 
it, half of what she may have to bear.” 

Thus the mother lay and accused herself, taking first one, and 
then the other, upon her shoulders, shedding salt tears under the 
veil of that darkness, wondering where she should next wander to, 
and what would become of them, and whether light could ever 
come out cf this darkness. How her heart ached!— what fears and 
heaviness overwhelmed her; while Ombra slept and dreamed, and 
was happy in the midst of the wretchedness which she had brought 
upon herself! 

CHAPTER LVlll. 

They were all very subdued when they met next day. It was 
now, perhaps, more than at any former time that Kate’s position 
told. Instinctively, without a word of it to each other, Mrs. An- 
derson and her daughter felt that on her aspect everything depend- 
ed. They would not have said it to each other, oi even to them- 
selves; but, nevertheless, there could not be any doubt on the sub- 
ject. There were two of them, and they were perfectly free to go 
and come as they pleased; but the little one— the younger child— 
the second daughter, who had been quietly subject to them so 
long, was the mistress of the situation; she was the lady of the 
house, and they were but her guests. In a moment their positions 
were changed, and everything reversed. And Kale felt it, too. 
They were both in the breakfast-room when she came in. She was 
very quiet and pale, unlike her usual self, but when she made her 
usual greetings, a momentary glow of red came over her face. It 


316 


OMBRA. 


burned as she touched Ombra's cheek with her own. After all 
that had passed, these habitual kisses were the most terrible thing 
to go through. It was bo haid to break the bond of custom, and. 
so hard to bestow what means love solely tor custom’s sake. The 
two girls reddened as if they had been lovers as they thus ap- 
proached each other, though for a very ditterent cause,* but no 
stranger, unless he had been very quick-sighted, would have seen 
the subtle, unexpressed change which each of them telt dropping 
into their very soul. Kate left the others as soon as breakfast was 
over, and was absent the whole morning. At lunch she was again 
visible, and once mere they sat and talked, with walls of glass or 
ice, between them. This time, however, Kate gave more distinct 
indication of her policy. 

“ Would you like to have the carriage this afternoon?” she said. 

“ 1 don’t Know,” said Mrs. Anderson, doubtfully, trying to read 
her niece’s pleasure in her eyes. “ If there is anywhere you want 
to go to, dear — ” 

” Oh! if you don’t think of going out, 1 shall drive to Wester- 
ton, to get some books,” said Kate. ” 1 want some German books. 

It is a long time since 1 have done any German ; but if you want 
the carriage, never mind — 1 can go some other day.” 

” I do not want it,” said Mrs. Anderson, with a chill of aismay; 
and she turned to Ombra, and made some anxious suggestion about 
walking somewhere. ” It will be a nice opportunity while Kate is 
occupied,” said the poor soul, scheming to keep things smooth; 

‘‘ you said you wanted to see that part of the park.” 

” Yes,” said Ombra, depressed too, though she would have been 
too proud to confess it; and thus it was arranged. 

Kate drove away alone, and had a hearty cry in the carriage, and 
was very unhappy; and the mother and daughter went and walked 
against time in the frost-bound park. It was a bright winter after- 
noon, with a pleasant sharpness in the air, and a gorgeous sunset 
of red and gold. They stopped and pointed it out to each other, 
and dwelt on all the different gradations of color, with an artificial 
delight. The change had come in a way which they had not ex- 
pected, and they did not knew how to face it. It was the only sit- 
uation which Mrs. Anderson, in her long musings, had not fore- 
seen, and she did not know how to meet it. There was nothing 
but dismay in her mind — dismay and wonder. All her sagacity 
was at fault. 

This went on for some time. Kate was very kind to her guests; 


OMBRA. 


317 


but more and more every day they came to feel themselves guests 
in the house. She was scarcely ever with them, except at meals; 
and they would sit together all the Icng morning, and sometimes 
all the long afternoon, silent, saying nothing to each other, and hear 
Kate’s voice tar off, perhaps singing as she went through one of 
the long passages, perhaps talking to Maryanne, or to a dog which 
she had brought in from the stable. They sat as if under a spell, 
for even Ombra was hushed. Her feelings had somehow changed. 
Instead of the horror with which she had regarded the probable ar- 
rival of her lover, she seemed now possessed with a feverish desire 
to receive him, to see him when he came, to watch him, perhaps to 
make sure that he was true to her. 

“ How can 1 go away, and know that he is here, and endure it?” 
she said to her mother. “1 must stay!— 1 must stay! It is 
wretched; but it would be more wretched to go.” 

This was her mood ofae day; and the next she would be impa- 
tient to leave Langton- Courtenay at once, and found the yoke 
which was upon her intolerable. These were terrible days, as smil- 
ing and smooth as of old to all beholders, but with complete change 
within. Kate was as brdve as a lion in carrying out the role she 
had marked out for herself. Even when her heart failed her, she 
hid it, and went on stoutly in the almost impossible way. 

*• 1 will net interfere with them— 1 will not ask anything; but 
otherwise there shall be no change,” she said to herself, with 
something of the arrogance of youth, ready to give all, and to be- 
lieve that it could be accepted without the return of anything. But 
sometimes it was very hard for her to keep it up; sometimes the 
peculiar aspect of the scene would fill her with sudden compunc- 
tions, sudden longings. Everything looked so like the old, happy 
days, and yet it was all so different! Sometimes a tone of her 
aunt’s voice, a movement or a look of Ombra, would bring some 
old tender recollection back to her mind, and she would feel driven 
to the last extremity to prevent herself from bursting into tears, or 
making a wild appeal to them to let things be as they were again. 
But she resisted all these impulses, saying to herself, with forlorn 
pride, that the old love had never existed, that it had been but a 
delirium of her own, and that consequently there was nothing to 
appeal to. She resumed her German, and worked at it with tre- 
mendous zeal in the library by herself. German is an admirable 
thing when one has been crossed in love, or mortified in friendship. 
How often has it been resorted to in such circumstances— and has 
always afforded a certain consolation! And Kate plunged into 


318 


OMBEA. 


parish business, to the great delight and relief of Minnie Hardwick, 
and showed all her old love ot the “ human interest ” of the vil- 
lage, the poor folk’s stories and their difficulties. She tired heiself 
out, and went back and put oft her gray frock, and arrayed her- 
self, and sat do wn at the table with Ombra, languid and heavy-eyed, 
and Mrs. Anderson, who greeted her with faint smiles. There was 
little conversation at the table; and it grew less and less as the days 
went on. These dinners w’ere not amusing; and yet they had some 
interest too, for each watched the other, wondering what she would 
next do or say. 

1 can not tell exactly how long this lasted. It seemed to all three 
an eternity. But one atternoon when Kate came in from a long 
walk to the other side ot the parish, she found a letter conspicu- 
ously placed on the hall -table, where she could not fail to see it. 
She trembled a little when she saw her aunt’s handwriting. And 
there were fresh carriage-wheels marking the way down the 
avenue; she had noticed this as she came up. She sat dowm on 
the settle in the hall, where Mrs. Anderson had placed herself on 
the day of their return, and read the following letter with surprise, 
and yet without surprise. It gave her a shock as of suddenness 
and strangeness; and yet she had known that it must happen all 
along. 

“ My dearest Kate,— If you can think, when you read this, 
that 1 do not mean what 1 say, ycu will be very, very wrong. All 
these years 1 have loved you as if you were my own child. 1 could 
not have done otherwise — it is not in nature. "Bat this is not what 
1 want tD say. We are going away. It is not with my will, and 
yet it is not against my will; for even to leave you alone in the 
house is better than forcing you to live this unnatural life. Good- 
bye, my dear, dear child! 1 can not tell you — more’s the pity! — 
the circumstances that have made my poor Ombra bitter with every- 
thing, including her best friends; but she is very, very sorry, al- 
ways, after she has said those dreadful words which she does not 
mean, but which seem to give a little relief to her suftering and 
bitterness. This is all 1 can tell you now. Some time or other you 
will know everything; and then, though you may blame us, you 
will pity us too. 1 want to tell you that it never was my wish to 
keep the secret from you— nor even Ombra’s. At least, she would 
have yielded, but the other partv to the secret would not. Dearest 
child, forgive me! I go away from you, however, with a veiy sore 
heart, and 1 don’t know where we shall go, or what we shall do. 
Ever ycur most affectionate, “JT ’’Av Anderson. 

“ P.S.— 1 have written to your uncle, that unavoidable circum- 
stances, over which 1 have no control, compelled my leaving. 1 
should prefer that you did not say anything to him about what 
these circumstances were.” 


OMBKA. 


319 


Kate sat still tor some time after she had read her letter. She 
had expected it — it was inevitable; but, oh! with what loneliness 
the house began to fill behind her! She sat and gazed into the fire, 
dumb, bearing the blow as she best could. She had expected it, 
and yet she had never believed it possible. She had felt sure that 
something would turn up to reconcile them— that one day or 
another, sooner or later, they would all fall upon each other’s necks, 
and be at one again. She was seized suddenly by that fatal doubt 
of herself which always comes toe late. Had she done right, after 
all? People must be very confident of doing right who have such 
important matters in hand. Had she sufficient reason? "Was it not 
mean and paltry of her, in htr own house, to have resented a few 
unconsidered words so bitterly? In her own house! And then she 
had been the means of turning these two, whom she loved, whether 
they loved her or not, out upon the world. Kate sat without stir- 
ring while the early darkness fell. It crept about her impercepti- 
bly, dimness, and 8ilenc.3, and solitude. The whole great house 
was a vast desert of silence — not a sound, not a voice, nothing 
audible but the fall of the ashes on the hearth. The servants’ rooms 
were far away, shut off by double doors, that no noises might dis- 
turb their mistress. Oh! what would not Kate have given for the 
cheerful sound of the kitchen, that used to be too audible at 
Shanklin, which her aunt always complained of. Her aunt! who 
had been like her mother! And where was she now? She began 
to gasp and sob hysterically, but could not cry. And theie was 
nobody to take any notice. She heard her own voice, but nobody 
else heard it. They were gone! Servants, new servants, filled the 
house, noiseless creatures, decorous and well-bred, shut in within 
double doors, that nobody might hear any sound of them. And 
she alone!— a girl not twenty !— alone in a house which could put 
up fifty people! — in a house where there was no sound, no light, no 
warmth, no fire, no love! 

She sat there till it was dark, and never moved. Why should she 
move? There was no fireside to go to, no one whose presence made 
home. She was as well on the settle in the hall as anywhere else. 
The darkness closed over her. What did she care? She sat stupe- 
fied, with the letter in her hand. 

And there she was found when Mr. Spigot, the butler, came to 
light the lamp. He gave a jump when he saw something in the 
corner of the settle. And that something started too, and drew 
itself together, and said, “ Is it so late? 1 did not know!” and put 
her hands across her dazzled eyes. 


320 


OMBRA. 


“ 1 beg you a thousand pardons, miss,’^ said Spigot, confused, 
for he had been whistling under his breath. “ X didn't know as no 
one wasn’t there." 

“ [Never mind," said Kate. “ Give me a candle, please. 1 sup- 
pose 1 must have dropped asleep " 

Had she dropped asleep really “ tor sorrow?" — had she fainted 
and come to again, nobody being the wiser? Kate could not tell— 
but there had been a moment of unconciousness one way or the 
other; and when she crept upstairs with her caudle, a solitary 
twinkle like a glow-worm in the big staiicase, she felt chilled to 
the bone, aching and miserable. She crept upstairs into the warmth 
of her rocm, and, looking in the glass, saw that her face was as 
the face of a ghost. Her hair had dropped down on one side, and 
the dampness of the evening had taken all the curl out of it. It 
fell straight and limp upon her colorless cheek. She went and 
kneeled down before the fire and warmed herself, which seemed 
the first necessity of all. " Hotv cold cne gets when one is un- 
happy!" she said, half aloud; and the murmur of her own voice 
sounded strange in her ear. Was it the only voice that she w^as 
now to hear? 

When Maryanne came with the candles, it was a comfort to Kate. 
She started up fiom the fire. She had to keep up appearances— to 
lock as if nothing had happened. Maryanne, fcr her part, was 
running over with the news. 

“Have you heard, miss, as Mrs. Anderson and Miss Ombra is 
gone?" she asked, as soon as decency would permit. The whole 
house had been moved by this extraordinary departure, and the en- 
tire servants’ hall hung upon Maryanne for nows. 

“ Tes," said Kate, calmly. “ 1 thought 1 should be back in 
time, but 1 was tco late. 1 hope my aunt had everything comfort- 
able. Maryanne, as 1 am all alone, you can bring me up some tea 
here— 1 can't take the trouble to dine — alone." 

“ Very well, miss," said Maryanne; “ it will be a deal comforta- 
bler. If Mrs. Spigot had known as the ladies was going, she would 
have changed the dinner — but it was so sudden-like." 

*' Yes, it was very sudden," said Kate. And thus Maryanne 
carried no news down-stairs. 


OMBKA. 


321 


CHAPTER LIX. 

Kate’s life seemed to stop at this point. For a few days she did 
not know what she did. She would have liked to give in, and be 
ill, but dared not, lest her aunt (wdio did not love her) should be 
corapiomised. Theretoie she kept up, and walked and went to the 
parish and chattered with Minnie Hardwick, and even tried her 
German, thcuah this latter attempt was not very successful. 

“ My aunt was called away suddenly on business,” she explained 
to Mrs. Hardwick. 

‘‘'VVhal! and left you alone— quite alone in that great house?” 
cried Mrs. Hardwick. ” It is not possible! How lonely for j’ou! 
Hut 1 suppose she will only be gone for a few days?” 

” We scaicely know. It is business that has taken her away, 
and nobody can answer fcr business,” said Kate, with an attempt 
at a laugh. ** But the servants are very good, and 1 shall do very 
well. I am not afraid of being alone.” 

Not afraid, 1 dare say, but dreadfully solitary. It ought not 
to be,” said Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone of reproof. And the thought 
passed through her mind that she had never quite approved of Mrs. 
Anderson, who seemed to know much more of Bertie than was at 
all desirable, and, no doubt, had attempted to secure hjin for that 
pale girl of hers. ” Though what any gentleman could see in her, 
cr how any one could S3 much as look at her while Kate Courte- 
nay was by, 1 don’t understand,” she said after, discussing the 
question in private. 

” Oh, mamma, 1 think she is so sweet and pretty,” said Edith. 

But 1 am sure Bertie does not like her. Bertie avoided her— he 
was scarcely civil. 1 am sure if there is any one that Bertie ad- 
mires it is Kate.” 

Mrs. Hardwick shook her head. 

” Bertie knows very well,” she said, ** that Miss Courtenay is 
out of bis reach— delightful as she is, and everything w^e could de- 
sire — except that she is rather too rich; but that is no reason why 
he should go and throw himself away on some girl without a pen- 
ny. 1 don’t put any faith in his avoiding Miss Anderson. 'When 
a young man avoids a young woman it is much the same as when 
he seeks her society. But, Minnie, run away and look after your 
club bDoks; you are too young yet to hear such matters discussed.” 


322 


OMBEA. 


“ Edith is only a year older than 1 am,” said Minnie, within 
herself, ” but then she is almost a married lad 3 \” And with this 
she comforted her heart, which was not witliout its private flutters 
too. 

And Kate kept on her way, very bravely holding up her little 
flag of resolution. She sat in the room which they had all occupied 
together, and had coals heaped upon the two fires, and could not 
get warm. The silence of the place made her sick and faint. She 
got up and walked about, in the hope of hearing at least her own 
step, and could not on the soft carpet. When she coughed, it 
seemed to ring all through the house. She got frightened when 
she caught a glimpse of herself in the great mirror, and thought it 
was a ghost. She sent to Westerlon for all the novels that were to 
be had, and these were a help to her; but still, to sit in a quiet 
room, with yourself now and then seen passing through the glass 
like a thief, and m thing audible but the ashes-falling from the 
grate, is a terrible experience for a girl. She heard herself breath- 
ing; she heard her cough echo down all tbe long galleries. She 
had her stable dog washed and brushed, and made fit for good so- 
ciety, in the hope that he would take to the drawing-room, and 
live with her, and give her some one to speak to. But, after all, 
he preferred the stables, being only a mongiel, wilhout birth cr 
breeding. This rather overcame Kate’s bravery; but only once did 
she thoroughly breali down. It was tbe day after her aunt left, 
and with a sudden recollection of companicnship and solace still 
remaining, she had said to Maryanne, ” Go and call ola Frances- 
ca.” ” Francesca, miss! oh! bless you, she’s gone with her lady,” 
said Maryanne; and Kate, who had not expected this, broke down 
all at once, and had a fit of crying. 

Kever mind; it is nothing. 1 thought they meant to leave 
Francesca,” she said, incoherently. Thus it became evident to her 
that they were gone, and gone forever. And Kate went back to 
her melanclioly solitude, and took up her novel; but when she had 
read tfie first page, she stopped, and began to think. She had done 
no wrong to any one. If there was wrong, it had been done to her. 
She had tried even to resist all feelings of resentment, and to look 
as if she had forgotten the wrong done her. Yet it was she who 
was being punished, as if she were the criminal. Nobody any- 
where, whatever harm they might have done, had been punished 
so sorely. Solitary confinement! was not that the worst of all— 
the thing that drives people mad? 

Then Mr. Courtenay wrote in a state of great fret and annoy- 


OMBEA. 


323 


ance. What did Mis. Anderson mean by leaving him in the lurch 
just then, she and hex daughter? She had not even given him an 
address, that he might write to her and remonstrate (he had intend- 
ed to supersede her in spring, to be sure, but he did not think it 
necessary to mention that); and here he was in town, shut up with 
a threatening of bronchitis, and it was as much as his life was 
worth to travel now. Couldn’t she get some one to slay with her, 
or get along somehow until Lady Caryisfort came home? 

Kate wiote him a brave little letter, saying that of course she 
could get on — that he need not be at all troubled about her— that 
she was quite happy, and should prefer being left as she was. 
When she had written it, she lay down on the rug before the fire, 
and had a cry, and ihen came to herself, and sent to ask if Minnie 
Hardwick might spend the evening with her. Minnie’s report 
brought her mother up next morning, who found that Kate had a 
bad cold, and sent for the doctor, and kept her in bed; and all the 
fuss of this little illness— though Kate believed she hated fuss— did 
her good. Her own room was pleasanter than the drawing-room. 
It was natural to he alone there; and as she lay on the sofa, and 
was read to by Minnie, there seemed at times a possibility that life 
might mend. And next day and the next, though she recovered, 
this companionship went on. Minnie was not very wise, but she 
chattered about everything in heaven and earth. She talked of her 
brother— a subject in which Kate could not help taking an interest, 
which was half anger, half something else. She asked a hundred 
questions about Florence— 

“ Did you really see a great deal of Bertie? How funny that he 
should not have told usi Men axe so odd!” cried Minnie. ” If it 
had been 1, 1 should have raved about you for ever and ever!” 

” Because you are silly and — warm-hearted,” said Kate, with a 
sigh. ” Yes, 1 think we saw them pretty often.” 

“ Why do you say iTiemV' 

” Why? because the two were always together? We never ex- 
pected to see one without the ether.” 

” Like your cousin and you,” said innocent Minnie. And then 
she laughed. 

” Why do yon laugh?” said Kate. 

Oh! nothing— an idea that came into my head. 1 have heard 
of two sisters marrying two brothers, but never of two pairs of 
cousins —it would be funny.” 

” But altogether out of the question, as it happens,” said Kate, 
growing stately all at once. 


324 


OMBKA. 


“Oil! don’t be angry. 1 did not mean anything. Was Bertie 
very attentive to Miss Anderson in Floience? We wonder some- 
times. For I am sure he avoided hei here; and mamma says she 
puts no faith in a gentleman avoiding a lady. It is as bad as— 
v\'hat do think?— unless you would rather not say,” added 

Minnie, shyly; “ or if you think l oughtn’t to ask — ” 

“ 1 don’t know anything about Mr. Bertie Hardwick's feelings,” 
said Kate. And then she added, with a little sadness which she 
could not quite conceal, “ Nor about anybody, Minnie. Don’t 
ask me, please. 1 am not clever enough to find things out; and 
Dcbody ever confides in me.” 

“ 1 am sur^ 1 should confide in you first of all!” cried Minnie, 
with enthusiasm. “Oh! when 1 recollect how much we used to 
be frightened tor you, and what a funny girl we thought ycu; and 
then to think 1 should know you so well now, and have got so— 
fond of you — may 1 say so?” said the little girl, who was proud of 
her post. 

Kate made no answer for a full minute, and then she said, 

“ Minnie, you are younger than 1 am, a great deal younger—” 

“lam eighteen,” said Minnie, mortified. 

“ But 1 am nineteen and a half, and very, very old for my age. 
At your age one does not know which is the real thing and which is 
the shadow— there are so many shadows in this world; and some- 
limes you take them for truth, and when you find it out it is hard.” 

Minnie followed this dark saying with a puzzled little face. 

“ Yes,” she said, perplexed, “like Narcissus, you mean, and 
the dog that dropped the bone. No, 1 don’t mean that — that is 
too — too — commonplace. Oh! did you ever see Bertie Eldridge's 
3'acht? 1 think 1 heard he had it at the Isle of Wight. It ^as 
called the ‘ Shadow.’ Oh! I would give anything to have a sail 
in a yacht!” 

Ah! that was called the “ Shadow,” too. Kate felt for a mo- 
ment as if she had found something out; but it was a delusion, an 
idea which she could net identify— a will-o’-the-wisp, which 
looked like something, and was nuifiing. “ 1 have a shadow, 
toe,” she murmured, half to herself. But before Minnie’s wonder- 
ing eyes and temgue could ask what it meant, Spigot came solemn- 
ly to the door. He had to peer into the darkness to see his young 
mistress on the sofa, 

“ If ycu please. Miss Courtenay,” he said, “ there is a gentleman 
down- stairs wishes to see you; and he won’t take no answer as 1 
can offer. He says if you hear his name—” 


OMBKA. 


325 


“ What i8 his name?'' cried Kate. She did not know what she 
expected, but it made her heart beat. She sat up cn her sofa, 
throwing off her wraps, notwithstanding Minnie’s remonstrances. 
Who could it be? — or, rather, what? 

“ The Reverend Mr. Sugden, miss,” said Mr. Spigot. 

“ Mr. Sugden!” She said the name two or three times over be- 
fore she could remember. Then she rose, and directed Spigot to 
light the candles. She did not know how it was, but new vigor 
somehow seemed to come intc her veins. 

“ Minnie,” she said, ‘‘ this is a gentleman who knows my aunt. 
He has come, 1 suppose, abcut her business. 1 want you to stay 
just now, but if 1 put up my hand so, will you run upstairs and 
wait fcr me in my room? Take the book. You will be a true 
little friend if you will do this.” 

‘‘Leave you alone!— with a gentleman!” said Minnie. “But 
then of course he must be an old gentleman, as he has come about 
business,” she said to herself; and added, hastily, ‘‘Of course 1 
will. And if you don’t put up your hand— so— must 1 slay?” 

‘‘lam sure to put it up,” said Kale. 

The room by this time tvas light and bright, and Spigot's solemn 
step was heard once more approaching. Kate placed herself in a 
large chair. She looked as imposing and dignified as she could, 
poor child! — the solitary mistress of her own house. But how 
strange il was to see the tall figure come in — the watchful, wistful 
face she remerribered so well! He held out his large hand, in 
which her little one was drowned, just as he used to do. He 
glanced round him in the same way, as if Ombra might be some- 
where about in the corners. His shadow too! Kate could not 
doubt ihat. But when she gave Minnie her instructions, she had 
taken it for granted that there would have been certain prelimin- 
aries to the conversation— inquiries about herself, or information 
about what she was doing. But Mr. Sugden was full of excite- 
ment and anxiety. He took her small hand into his big one, which 
swallowed it up, as we have said, and he held it, as some men hold 
a button. 

‘ 1 hear they have left you,” he said. *‘ Tell me, is it true?” 

‘‘ yes,” said Kate, too much startled to give her signal, ‘‘ they 
have left me.” 

“ And you don’t kriow where they have gone?” 

She remembered now, and Minnie disappeared, curious beyond 
all description. Then Kate withdrew her hand from that mighty 
grasp. 


3^6 


OMBEA. 


“ 1 don’t know where they have gone. Have you heard any- 
thing of them, Mr. Sugden? Have you Brought me, perhaps, a 
message?” 

He shock his head. 

” 1 heard it all vaguely, only vaguely; but you know how 1 used 
to feel. Miss Kate. 1 feel the same still. Thougii it is not what 
1 should have wished— 1 am ready to be a brother to her. Will 
you tell me all that has passed since you went away?” 

” All that has passed?” 

” If you will. Miss Kate— as you would be kind to one who does 
not care very much what happens to him! You are kind, 1 know 
—and you love her!” 

The tears came to Kate’s eyes. She grew warm and red all over, 
throwing off, as it were, in a moment, the palsy of cold and misery 
that had come over her. 

” Yes,” she said, suddenly, ” 1 love her,” and cried. Mr. Sug- 
den looked on, not knowing why. 

Kate felt herself changed as in a moment; she felt— nay, she was 
herself again. What did it matter 'whether they loved her?— she 
Icved them. That was, after all, what she had most to do with. 
She dried her tears, and she told her story straight off, like a lale 
she had been taught, missing nothing. And he drank it all in to 
the end, not missing a word. When she had finished he sat silent, 
with a somber countenance, and not a syllable was spoken between 
them tor ten minutes at least. Then he said aloud, as if not talk- 
ing, but thinking, 

” The question is, which?” Then he raised his eyes and looked 
at her. ‘‘ Which?” he repeated. 

Kate grew pale again, and felt a choking in her throat. She 
bowed her head, as it she were accepting her fate. 

” Ml, Bertie Hardwick I” she said. 


CHAPTER LX. 

This strange little incident, which at the moment it was occui- 
ring seemed to be perfectly natural, but as soon as that moment 
was over became inexplainable, dropped into Kate’s life as a stone 
drops into water. 11 made a curious commotion and bustle for 
the moment, and stirred faintly for a little while afterward, and 
then disappeared, and was thought of no more. 

Mr. Sugden would not stay, he would not even eat in the hcuse. 


OMBKA. 


327 

He had come down from town to the station six miles off, the 
nearest station fcr Langton-Courtenay, and there he meant to re- 
turn again as soon as he had his information. Kale had been much 
troubled as to how she, in her unprotected condition, was to ask him 
to slay; but when she found out he would not stay, an uncomfort- 
able sensation as of want of hospitality came over her. But when 
he was actually gone, and Minnie Hardwick called back, somehow 
the entire incident appeared like a dream, and it seemed impossible 
that anything important had happened. Minnie was not curious; 
business was to her a sacred word, which covered all difficulties. 
The curate was not old, as she had supposed- but otherwise being 
a friend of Mrs. Anderson’s, and involved in her affairs, his sud- 
den visit seemed perfectly natural. Just so men would come down 
from town, and be shut up with her father for an hour or two, 
and then disappear; and Kate as a great lady, as an heiress and in- 
dependent pel son, no doubt must have the same kind of visitors. 

Kate, however, thought a great deal of it that night— could not 
sleep indeed, for thinking of it; but less next morning, and still 
less the day after, till at length the tranquillity settled back into its 
old stillness. Mr. Sugden had done her good, so far that he had 
roused her to consciousness of a hearty sentiment in herself, inde- 
pendent of anything from without— the natural affection which 
was her own independent possession, and not a leflection of other 
people’s love. What though they did not love her even? She 
loved them; and as soon as she became conscious of this she was 
saved from the mental harm that might have happened to her. 
gave Kate pain when da}^ after day passed on and no word came 
fiom those who had departed from her so suddenly. But then she 
was young, and had been brought up in the persuasion that every- 
thing was likely to turn out right at the end, and that permanent 
unhappiness was a very rare thing. She was not alarmed about 
the safety of those who had deserted her; they were two, nay, 
three people together; they were used to taking care of themselves; 
so far as she knew, they had money enough and all that was re- 
quired. And then her own life was so stiange; it occupied her 
almost like a fairy-lile. She thought she had never heard of any 
one so forlorn and solitary. The singularity of her position did 
her good. She was half proud, half amused by it; she smiled 
when her visitors would remark upon her singular Icneliness— 
“ Yea, it seems strange to you, 1 suppose,” she said; ‘‘ but 1 don’t 
mind it.” It (vas a small compensation, but still it. was a kind of 
compensation, indemnifying her for some at least of her trouble. 


32S 


OMBRA. 


The ADdersons had disappeared into the great darkness of the 
world, tut some day they would turn up again and come back to 
her and make explanations. And although she had been impressed 
by Mi. Sugden’s visit, she was net actually anxious about the 
future of her aunt and cousin; some time or other things naturally 
would put themselves right. 

This, however, did not prevent the feeling of her loneliness from 
being terrible to her— insupportable; but it ren 40 ved all complica- 
tions from her feelings, and made them simple. And thus she 
lived on tor months together, as if in a dream, always assuring 
Mr. Courtenay that she did very well, that she wanted nothing, 
getting a little society in the rectory with the Hardwicks, and with 
some of her county neighbors who had called upon her. Minnie 
got used to the carriage, and to making expeditions into Westerton, 
the nearest town, and liked it. And strangely and stilly as ever 
chatelaine lived in an old castle, in such a strange maiden seclu- 
sion lived Kate. 

Where had the others gone? She ascertained before long that 
they were not at Shanklin — the cottage was still let to “ very nice 
people,” about whom Lucy Eldridge wrote very enthusiastic let- 
ters to hei cousin — letters which Kate would sometimes draw her 
innocent moral from, not without a little faint pain, which sur- 
prised her in the midst of all graver troubles. She pointed out to 
Minnie how Lucy Eldridge had rejected the very idea of being 
friendly with the new-comers, much less admitting them to a share 
in the place Kate held in her heart. ” Whereas now you will see I 
am forgotten altogether,” Kate said, with a conscious melancholy, 
that was not disagreeable to her. Minnie protested that with her 
such a thing could never happen — it was impossible; and Kate 
smiled sadly, and shook her head in her superior knowledge'. She 
took Minnie into her intimacy with a sense of condescension. But 
the friendship did her good. And Mrs. Hardwick was very kind 
to her. They were all anxious to “be of use ” tc the heiress, to 
help her through her melancholy hours. 

When Bertie came down for his next flying visit, she maneuvered 
sO that she succeeded in avoiding him, though he showed no desire 
this time to avoid her. But, Kate said to herself, this was some- 
thing that she could not bear. Bhe could not see him as if he were 
an indifferent stranger, when she knew well that he could reveal 
to her everything she wanted to know, and set the tangle right at 
last. He knew where they were without doubt — he knew every- 
thing. She could not meet him calmly, and shake hands with 


OMBKA. 


329 


him, and pretend she did not remember the past. She was ofiended 
w4th him, both for their sake and her own— for Ombra’s sake, be- 
cause of the secret ; and for her own, because of certain little words 
and looks which were an insult to her from Ombrn’s lover. ]No, 
she could not see him. She had a bad headache when he came with 
his mother to call; she was not able to go out when she was asked 
to the reel cry. She saw him only at church, and did nothing but 
bow when he hurried to speak to her in the church-yard. 2So, that 
she would not put up with. There was even a cei tain contempt 
mingled with her soreness. Mrs. Anderson had put all the blame 
upon him — the “ other party to the secret, while he, poor creat- 
ure, would not even take the responsibility upon his own shoulders 
bravely, but blamed Oinbra. Well, well, Kate resolved that she 
would keep her solitude unbroken, that she would allow no intru- 
sion upe n her of all the old agitations that once had made her un- 
happy. She would not consent to allow herself to be maile unhap- 
py any longer, or even to think of those who had given her so much 
pain. 

Unfortunately, however, after she had made this good resolution, 
she thought of nothing else, and puzzled herself over the whole 
business, and especially Bertie’s share in it, night and day. He 
would suddenly start up into her mind when she was thinking of 
something else, with a glow over his face, and anxious gleam in 
his eyes, as she had seen him at the church door. Perhaps, then, 
though so late, he had meant to explain. Perhaps he intended to 
lay before her what excuses there might be— lo tell her how one 
thing followed another, how they had been led into clandestine 
ways. • 

Kate would make out an entire narrative to herself, and then 
would stop short suddenly, and ask herself what she meant by it? 
It was not for her to explain lo them, but for them to explain to 
her. But she did not want to think badly of them. Even when 
her wounds had been deepest, she had not wished lo think unkind- 
ly, and it would have given her a kind of forlorn pleasure tc be 
able to find out their excuses beforehand. This occupied her many 
an hour when she sat alone in the stillness, to which she gradually 
became accustomed. After awhile her own reflection in the glass 
no longer struck her as looking like a ghost or a thief; she grew 
used to it. And then the way in which she threw herself into the 
parish did one good to see. Minnie Hardwick felt that Kate’s 
activity and Kate’s beneficence took awny her breath. IShe filled 
the cottages with what Mrs. Hardwick felt to be luxuries, and dis- 


330 


OMBKA. 


approved of. She lushed into Weslerton continually, to buy things 
for the old women. One had an eas}" chair, another a carpet, an- 
other curtains to keep the wind out from the draughty cottage 
room. 

“ My dear, you will spoil the people; these luxuries are quite out 
of their reach. We ought not to demoralize them,” said the clergy- 
woman, thinking of the awful consequences, and of the expecta- 
tions and discontents that would follow. 

“ if old Widow Morgan belonged to me — if she was my grand- 
mother. lor instance,” said revolutionary Kate, “ would there be 
anything in the world too good for her? We should hunt the 
draughts out of every ccrncr. and pad everything with velvet. And 
1 suppose an old woman of eighty in a cottage feels it just as 
much.” 

Mrs. Hardwick was silenced, but not convinced; she was, in- 
deed, shocked beyond measure at the idea of Widow Morgan re- 
quiring as many comforts as Kate’s grandmother. ‘‘ The giii has 
no discrimination whatever; she does not see the difference; it is of 
no use trying to explain to her,” she said, with a troubled counte- 
nance. But, except these little encounters, there was no real disa- 
greement between them. Bertie Hardwick’s family, indeed, took 
an anxious interest in Kate. They were not worldly-minded peo- 
ple, but they could not forget that their son had been thrown a 
great deal into society of a great heiress, both in the Isle of Wight 
and in Italy, The knowledge that he was in Kate’s vicinity hau 
indeed made them much more tolerant, though nobody said so, of 
his wanderings. They had not the heart, they said, to separate 
him from his cousin, to whom he was so much attached; but be- 
hind this there was perhaps lurking another reason. Not that they 
would ever have forced their sen’s affections, or advised, under any 
circumstances, a mercenary marriage; but only, all otner things 
being so suitable — Mrs. Hardwick, who liked to manage every- 
body, and did it very well, on the whole, took Kate into her hands 
with a glow of satisfaction. She would have liked to form her and 
mold her, and make her all that a woman in her important posi- 
tion ought to be; and, of course, no one could tell what might hap- 
pen m the future. It was well to be prepared for all. 

Mr. C(»urtenay, for his part, though not quite happy about his 
niece, and troubled by disagreeable pricks of conscience in respect 
to her, made all right by promises. He would come in a week or 
two -as soon as his cold was better— when he had got rid of the 
threatening of gout, which rather frightened his doctor. Finally, 


OMBKA. 


531 


he promised without doubt that he would come In the Easter re- 
cess, and make everything comfortable. But in the Easter recess 
it became absoluely necessary for him, for important private aflairs, 
to go down to the Duke of Dorchester’s marine palace, where there 
were some people going whom It was absolutely essential that he 
should meet. And thus it came to pass that Kate spent her twenti- 
eth birthday all alone at; Langton-Courtenay. Kobody knew or 
remembered that it was her birthday. Ihere was not so much as 
an old servant about the place to think of it. Maryanne, to be 
sure, might have remembered, but did not till next morning, when 
she broke forth with, “ La, Miss Kate!” into good wishes and re- 
grets, which Kate, with a flushed face and sore heart, put a stop 
to at once. No, no one knew. It is a hard thing, even when one 
is old, to feel that such domestic anniversaries have fallen into 
oblivion, and no one cares any longer for the milestones of our 
life; but when one is young— 

Kate went about all day long with this secret bursting in her 
heart. She would not tell it for pride, though, it she had, all the 
Hardwick family, at least, would have been ready enough with 
kisses and congratulations. She carried it about with her like a 
pain that she was hiding. “It is my birthday,” she said to her- 
self, when she paused before the big glass, and looked at her own 
solitary figure, and tried to make a little forlorn fun of herself; 
“good-morning, Kate, 1 will give you a present. It will be the 
only one you will get to-day,” she said, laughing, and nodding at 
her representative in the glass, whose eyes were rather red; “ but 
1 will not wish you many returns, for I’m sure you don’t want 
them. Oh I you poor, poor girl!” she cried, alter a moment— “ 1 
am so sorry for you! 1 don't think there is any one so sclitary in 
all the world.” And then Kate and her image both sat down 
upon the floor and cried. 

But in the afternoon she went to Westerton, with Minnie Hard- 
wick all unconscious beside her in the carriage, and bought herself 
the present she had promised. It was a tiny little cross, with the 
date upon it, which Minnie marveled at much, wondering if it 
was to herself that this memento was to be presented. Kate had a 
strong inclination to place the words, “ Infelimsimo giorno,^* over 
the date, but stopped, feeling that, it might look romantic; but it 
was the unhappiest day to her — the worst, she thought, she had 
ever yet had to bear. 

When she came home, how( ver, a letter was put into her hands, 
it was from Mrs. Anderson at last. 


332 


OMBRA. 


CHAPTER LXl. 

Kate’s existence, however, was tco monotonous to be flwelt 
upon for ever, and though all that can be aSorded to the leader is 
a glimpse of other scenes, yet there are one or two such glimpses 
w^hich may help him to understand how other people were aftected 
by this complication of aftairs. Bertie Hardwick went up to Lon- 
don after that second brief visit at the rectory, when Miss Court- 
enay had so successfully eluded seeing him, with anything but 
comfortable feelings. He had never quite known how she looked 
upon himself, but now it became apparent to him that whatever 
might be the amount of knowledge which she had acquired, it had 
been anything but favorable to him. How far he had a right to 
Kate’s esteem, or whether, indeed, it was a right thing for him to 
be anxious about it, is quite a different question. He was anxious 
about it. He wanted to stand well in the girl’s eyes. He had 
known her all his life, he said to himself. Of course they could 
only be acquaintances, not even friends, in all probability, so 
different must their lines of life be; but still it was hard to feel that 
Kate disliked him, that she thought badly of him: He had no 
light to care, but he did care. He stopped in his work many and 
many a day to think of it. And then he would lay down his book 
or his pen, and gnaw his nails (a bad habit, which his mother 
vainly hoped she had cured him of), and think— till all the law 
went out of his head which he was studying. 

This was very wrong, and he did not do it any more than he 
could help; but sometimes the tide of rising thought was loo much 
for him. Bertie was settling to work as he had great occasion to 
do. He had lost much time, and there was not a moment to be 
lost in making up tor it. Within the last three months indeed, his 
careless life had sustained a change which filled all his friends 
with satisfaction. It was but a short time to judge by, but yet, if 
ever man had seen the evil of his ways, and set himself, with true 
energy, to mend them, it was Bertie, everybody allowed. He had 
left his fashionable and expensive cousin the moment they had ar- 
rived in London. Instead of Bertie Eldridge’s fashionable quar- 
ters, in one of the streets off Piccadilly, which hitherto he had 
shared, he had established himself in chambers in the Temple, up 
two pairs of stairs, where he was working, it was reported, night 


OMBEA. 


333 


and day. Bertie Eldridge, indeed, had so frightened all his people 
by his laughing accounts of the wet towels which bound the other 
Bertie’s head of nights, while he labored at his law-books, that the 
student received three several letters on the subject— one from each 
of his aunts, and one from his mother. 

“ My dear, it goes to my heart to hear how you are working,” 
the latter said. ” 1 thank God that my own boy is beginning to see 
what is necessary to hold his place in life. But not too much, 
dearest Bertie, not too much. IVhat would it avail me if my son 
came to be lord chancellor, and lost his health, or even his life, on 
the way?” 

This confusing sentence did not make Bertie ridicule the writer, 
for he was, strange to say, very fond of his mother, but he wrote 
her a merry explanation, and set her fears at rest. However, 
though he did not indulge in wet towels, he had begun to work 
with an energy no one expected of him. He had a motive. He 
had seen the necessity, as his mother said. To wander all over the 
world with Bertie Eldridge, whose purse was carelessly free, but 
whose way it was, unconsciously, while intending to save his friends 
frcm expense, to draw them into greater and ever greater outlay, 
was not a thing which could be done, or which it would be at all 
satisfactory to do for life. And many very grave thoughts had 
come to Bertie on the journey home. Perhaps he had grown just 
a little disgusted with his cousin, who saw everything from his 
own point of view, and could not enter into the feelings and anxie- 
ties of a poorer man. 

” Oh I bother! All will come right in the end,” he would say, 
when his cousin pointed out to him the impossibility for bimsell 
of the situation, so far as he himself w^as concerned. 

” How can it come right for me?” Hardwick had asked. 

” How you do worry!” said Bertie Eldridge. ” Haven’t we al- 
ways shared everything? And why shouldn’t we go on doing so? 
1 may be kept out of it, of course, for 3 ^ears and years, but not for- 
ever. Hang it, Bertie, you know all must come right in the end; 
and haven’t we shared everything all cur lives?” 

This is a sort of speech which it is very aifficult to answer, ft is 
so much easier for the richer man to feel benevolent and liberal 
than for the poorer man to understand his ground of gratitude in 
such a partnership. Bertie Eldridge bad, no doubt, shared many 
of his luxuries with his cousin. He had shared his yacht, for in- 
stance— a delight which Bertie Hardwick could by no means have 
procured himself- -but, while dcing this, he bad drawn the other 


334 


OMBEA, 


into such waste of time and money as he never could have been 
tempted to ctherwise. Bertie Hardwick knew that had he not 
“shared everything’' with his cousin he would have been a 
wealthier man; and hew then could he be grateful for that commu- 
nity ct goods which the other Bertie was so lavishly conscious of? 

“ He can ha^e spent nothing while we were together,” the latter 
was always saying. “He must have saved, in short, out ot the 
allowance my uncle gives him.’' 

Bertie Hardwick knew that the case was very difterent, but he 
could not be so ungenerous as to insist upon this in face of his 
ccusin’s delightful sense of liberality, fie held his tongue, and this 
silence did not make him more amiable. In short, the partnership 
had been broken, as partnerships of the kind are generally broken, 
with a littl.e discomfort on both sides. 

Bertie Eldridge continued his pleasant, idle life— did what he 
liked, and went where he liked, though, perhaps, with less free- 
dom than of old; while Bertie Hardwick retired to Pump Couit 
and worked— as the other said— night and day. He was hard at 
woric one of those spring afternoons which Kate spent down at 
Langton. His impulse toward labor was new, and, as yet, it had 
many things to struggle against. He had not been brought up to 
work; he had been an out-of-door lad, fond of any pursuit that 
implied open air and exercise. JMost young men are so brought up 
nowadays, whether it is the best training for them or not; and 
since he tcuk his degree, which had not been accompanied by any 
distinction, he had been yachting, traveling, amusing himself — 
none ot which things are favorable to work in Pump Court, upon 
a bright April afternoon. His window was open, and the very air 
coming in tantalized and tempted him. It plucked at his hair; it 
disordered his papers; it even blew the book close which he was 
bending over “ Confound the wind!” said Bertie. But, some 
how, he could not shut the window. How fresh it blew! even oft 
the questionable Thames, reminding the solitary student ot walks 
and rides through the budding woods; of the first days of the 
boating season; of all the delights of the opening year; confound 
the wind! He opened his book, and went at it again with a valorous 
and manful heart, a heart full of anxieties, yet with hope in it too, 
and what is almost better than hope— determination. The book 
was very dry, but Bertie applied to it that rule which is so good iu 
war— so good in play — capital for cricket and football, in the hunt- 
ing- field, and wherever daring and patience are alike necessary — Jie 
loould not he heat! it is, perhaps, rather a novel doctrine to apply 


OMBRA. 


S35 


to a book about conveyancing — or, at leasts such a use of it was 
novel to Bertie. But it answered all the same. 

And it was just as he was getting the mastery of his own mind, 
and forgettins:, for the moment, the fascinations of the sunshine 
and the errant breeze, that some one came upstairs with a resound- 
ing hasty footstep and knocked at his door. “It’s Bertie,” he 
said to himself, with a sigh, and opened to the new-comer. Now 
he was beat, but not by the book— by fate, aad the evil angels— 
not by any fault of his own. 

Bertie Eldfidge came in, bringing a gust of fresh air with him. 
He seated himself on his cousin’s table, scorning the chairs. His 
brow was a little clouded, though he was like one of the butterflies 
who toil not, neither do they spin. 

“By Jove! to see j^ou there grinding night and day, makes a 
man open his eyes — you that were no better than other people. 
What do you think you’ll ever make of it, old fellow? Not the 
W^^olsack, mind you— 1 give m to you a great deal, but you’re not 
clever enough for that.” 

“ 1 never thought 1 was,” said the other, laughing, but not with 
pleasure; and then there was a pause, and 1 leave it to the reader 
to judge which were the different interlocutors in the dialogue 
which follows, for to continue writing “ Bertie,” and “ the other 
Bertie,” is more than, human patience can bear. 

“You said you had something to say to me — out with ii! 1 
have a hundred things to do. You never were so busy in your 
life as 1 am. Indeed, 1 don’t suppose you know what being occu- 
pied means.” 

“ Of course it is the old subject 1 want to talk of. What could 
it be else? What is to be done? You ’know everything that has 
happened as well as 1 do. Busy! If you knew what my reflec- 
tions are early and late, waking and sleeping — ” 

“ 1 think 1 can form an idea. Has something new occuried— or 
is it the old question, the eternal old business, which you never 
thought of, unfortunately, till it was too late?’' 

“ It is no business of yours to taunt me, nor is it a friend’s office. 
1 am driven to my wit’s end. For anything 1 can see, things may 
go on as they are for a dozen years.” 

“Everybody must have felt so from the beginning. How you 
could be so mad, both she and you; you most, in one way, for you 
knew the world belter; she most, in another, for it is of more im- 
portance to a woman.” 

“ bhut up, Bertie. 1 won’t have any re-discussion of that ques- 


336 


OMBRA. 


tion. The thing is, what is to be done now? 1 was such a fool as 
to write to her about going down to Langton, at my father’s desire; 
and now 1 dare not go, or she will go frantic. Besides, she says it 
must be acknowledged before long; she must do it, if 1 can’t.” 

‘‘Good God!” 

** What is there to be horrified about? It was all natural. The 
thing is, what is to be done? If she would keep quiet, all would 
be right. 1 am sure her mother could manage everything. One 
place is as srood as another to live in. Don’t look at me like that. 
1 am distracted— going mad — and you won’t give me any help.” 

” Ihe question is, what help can 1 give?’' 

‘‘It is easy enough — as easy as daylight. If 1 were to go it 
would only make us both miserable, and lead to imprudences. 1 
know^ it would. But if you will do it for me — ” 

‘‘ Do you love her, Bertie?” 

” Love her! Good heavens! after all the sacrifices 1 have made! 
Look at me, as 1 am, and ask me if 1 love hei! But what can I 
do? If 1 speak now we are all ruinerl, but if she could only be 
persuaded to wait— only to wait, perhaps tor a few days, or a few 
months — 

‘‘ Or a few years! And to wait for w^hat? How can you ex- 
pect any good to come to you, when you build everything upon 
your—” 

*‘ Shut up, 1 tell you! Is it my fault? He ought to treat me 
difterently. 1 never would have entertained such a thought, but 
for — Bertie, listen to me. Will you go? They will hear reason 
from you.” 

‘‘ They ought not to hear reason. It is a cowardly shame! Yes, 
1 don’t mind your angry looks— it is a shame! You and 1 have 
been loo long together to mince matters between ourselves. 1 tell 
you 1 never knew anything more cowardly and wretched. It is a 
shame— a—” 

” The question is, not what you think of it,” said the other, 
sullenly, *’ but will you go?” 

‘‘ 1 suppose 1 must,” was the reply. 

When the visiter left, half an hour later, after more conversation 
of this same strain, can it be wondered at it Bertie Hardwick’s 
studies were no longer so steady as they had been? He shut up 
his books at last, and went out and walked toward the river. It 
was black and glistening, and very full with the spring rains. The 
tide was coming up— the river was crowded with vesselc of all 
kinds. Bertie walked to Chelsea, and got a boat there, and went 


OMBKA. 


337 


up to Richmond with Ihe t\de. But he did not go to the “ Stai and 
Garter,” where his cousin was dining with a brilliant party. He 
walRed back again to his chambers, turning over in his tired brain 
a hundred anxieties. And that night he did sit up at work, and 
for half an hour had recourse to the wet towel. JNot because he 
was working clay and night, but because these anxieties had eaten 
the very heart out ot his working day. 


CHAPTEK LXll. 

From Pump Court, in the Temple, it is a long way to the banks 
ot a little loch in Scotland, surrounded by hills, covered with 
heather, and populous with grouse — that is, of course, in the season. 
The grouse in this early summer were but babies, chirping among 
the big roots ot the ling, like barndoor chickens; the heatner was 
not purple, but only greening over through the gray husks of last 
year’s bloom. The gorse blossoms were forming; the birch-trees 
shaking out their folded leaves a little more and more day by day, 
against the sky, which was sometimes bo blue, and sometimes so 
leaden. At that time of the year, or at any other, it is lovely at 
Loch Arroch. Seated on the high bank behind the little inn, on 
the soft grass, which is as green as emeralds, but sc ft as velvet, 
you can count ten different slopes ot hills surrounding the gleam 
ing water, which receives them all impartially; ten distinct ridges, 
all as various as so many sportsmen, distinct in stature and char- 
acter — from the kindly birch-crowned heads in front here, away 
to the solemn distant altitudes, folded in snow- plaids or cloud- 
mantles, and sometimes in glorious sheen of sunset robes, that 
dazzle vou— -which fill up the circle far away. The distant giants 
are cleft into three peaks, and stand still to have their crowns and 
garments changed, with a benign patience, greeting you across the 
loch. There are no tourists, and few strangers, except the fisher- 
men, who spend their days not thinking of you or ot the beauties 
of nature, tossed in heavy cobles upon the stormy loch, or wading 
up to their waist in ice-cold pools of the river. The river dashes 
along its wild channel through the glen, working through rocks, 
and leaping precipitous corners, shrouding itself, like a coy girl, 
with the birchen tresses which stream over it, till it comes to an- 
other loch— a big silvery clasp upon its foaming chain. Among 
these woods and wraters man is still enough; but Hature is full of 
commction. She sings about all the hillsides in a hundred burns, 


338 


OMBBA. 


with delicalest treble; she makes her own bass under the riven 
rocks, among the foam of the greater streams; she mutters ever 
your head with deep sonorous melancholy utterance in the great 
pine-trees, and twitters in the leaflets of the birch. Lovely birks! 
—sweetest of all the trees of the mountains I Kever were such 
haunts for fairies, or for mountain girls as agile and as fair, as 
those sweet birchen woods. “ Stern and wild,’' do you say? And 
surely we say it, for so Sir Walter said before us. But what an 
exquisite idea was that of ]\ature— what a sweet, fantastic conceit, 
just like her wayward w^ealth of resource, to clothe the slopes of 
those rude hills with the Lady of the Woods! She must have 
laughed with pleasure, like a child, but with tears of exquisite 
poet satisfaction in her eyes, when she first saw the wonderful re- 
sult. And as for you poor people who have never seen Highland 
loch or river shine through the airy foliage, the white-stemmed 
grace and lightness of a birch-wood, we are sorry for you, but we 
will not insult your ignorance; for, soft in your ear, the celebrated 
Mr. Cook, and all his satellites who make up tours in the holiday 
season, have never. Heaven be praised! heard of Loch Arroch; and 
long may it be before the British tourist finds out that tranquil 
spot, 

1 can not tell how Mrs. Andersen and her daughter found it out. 
The late consul, it is true, had been from Perthshire, but that of 
itself gav9 them little information. Ihey had gone to Edinburgh 
first, and then, feeling that scarcely sufl5ciently out of the way, 
had gone further north, until at last Kinloch- Arroch received them; 
and they stayed there, they could not tell why, partly because the 
people looked so kind. The note which Kate received on her 
birthday had no date, and the post- mark on it was of a distant 
place, that no distinct clew might be given to their retreat; but 
Ombra always believed, though without the slightest ground for 
it, that this note of her mother’s, like all her other injudicious 
kindnesses to Kate, had done harm, and been the means of betray- 
ing them. For it was true that they were now in a kind of hiding, 
these two women, fearing to be recognized, not wishing to see any 
one, for reasons which need not be dwelled upon here. They had 
left Langtofi-Courienay with a miserable sense of fiiendlessness 
and loneliness, and .yei it had been in some respects a relief to 
them to get away; and the stillness of Loch Arroch, its absolute 
seclusion, and the kind faces of the people they found there, all 
concurred in making them decide upon this as their resiing place. 
They were to stay ali the summer, and already they were known 


OMBRA. 


339 


to everybody round. Old Francesca had already achieved a great 
succh in the Perthshire village. The people declared that they 
understood her much better than if she had been “ ane o’ thae 
mincing English. She was supposed to be French, and Scotland 
still remembers that France was once her auld and kind ally. The 
women in their white mutches wondered a little it is true, at the 
little old Italian’s capless head, and knot of scanty hair; but her 
kind little brcwn face, and her clever rapid ways, took them by 
storm. When she spoke Italian to her mistress they gathered 
round her in admiration. “ Losh! did you ever hear the like o’ 
that?” they cried, with hearty laughs, half restrained by polite- 
ness — though half of them spoke Gaelic, and saw nothing wonder- 
tul in that achievement. 

Ombra, the discontented and unhappy, had never in her life 
before been so gentle and so sweet. She was not happy still, but 
for the moment she was penitent, and subdued and at peace, and 
the admiration and the interest of their humble neighbors pleased 
her, Mrs. Anderson had given a description of her daughter to 
the kind landlady of the little inn, which did not tally with the 
circumstances which the reader knows; but probably she had her 
own reasons fci that, and the tale was such as filled everybody 
with sympathy. ‘‘ You maunna be doonheaited, my bonnie 
lamb,” the old w,omen would say to her; and Ombra would blush 
with painful emotion, and yet would be in her heart toughed and 
consoled by the homely sympathy. Ah ! if those kind people had 
but known hew much harder her burden really w^as! But yet to 
know how kindly all these poor stranger folk felt toward them was 
pleasant to the two women, and they clung together closer than 
ever in the enforced quiet. They were very anxious, restless, and 
miserable, and yet for a little while they were as nearly happy as 
two women could be. This is a paiadox which some women will 
understand, but which Fean not pause to explain. 

Things were going on in this quiet way, and it was the end of 
May, a season when as yet few even of the fishers who frequent 
that spot by nature, and none of the wise wanderers who have dis- 
covered Loch Arroch had begun to arrive, when cne evening a very 
tall man, strong and heavy, trudged round ihe corner into the 
village, with his knapsack over his shoulders. He was walking 
through the Highlands alone at this early period of the year. He 
put his knapsack down on the bench outside the door, and came 
into the little hall, decorated with glazed cases, in which stufied 
trout of gigantic proportions still seemed to swim among the green, 


840 


OMBEA. 


green river weeds, to ask kind Mrs. Macdonald, the landlady, if 
she could put him up. Be was “ a sott-spoken gentleman, cour- 
teous, such as Highlanders love, and there was a look of sadness 
about him which moved the mistress of the Macdonald Arms. But 
all at once, while he was talking to her, he started wildly, made 
a dart to the stair, which Francesca at that moment was leisurely 
ascending, and upset, as he passed, little Duncan, Mrs. Macdonald's 
favorite grandchild. 

“ The man's gane gyte!"' said the landlady. 

Francesca for her part took no notice of the stranger. If she 
saw him she either did net recognize him, or thought it expedient 
to ignore him. She went on, carrying high in front of her a tray 
full of newly-ironed linen, her own work, which she was carrying 
from the kitchen. The stranger stood at the foot of the stairs and 
watched her, with his face lifted to the light, which streamed from 
a long window opposite. There was an expression in his counten- 
ance (Mrs. Macdonald said afterward) which was like a picture. 
He had found what he sought! 

“ lhat is old Francesca,*' he said, coming back to her, “ Mrs. 
Anderson’s maid. Then, of course, Mrs. Anderson is here.'’ 

“ Ou ay, sir, the leddies are here,” said Mrs. Macdonald—** may- 
be they are expecting you? There was something said a while ago 
about a gentleman— a brother, or some near friend to the young 
good man. ’ 

“ The young goodman?" 

“ Ou ay, sir— him that’s in India, piiir gentleman! — at sic a time» 
too, when he would far rather be at hame. But ye’ll gang up the 
stair? Kath’rin, take the gentleman up the stair— he’s come to 
visit the leddies— and put him into !No. 10 next door. Being so 
near the leddies, 1 never put nc man there that 1 dinna ken some- 
thing aboot. You’ll find Loch Arnoch air, sir, has done the young 
mistress good.” 

The stranger followed upstairs, with a startled sense of other 
wonders to come; and thus it happened that without warning Mr. 
Sugden suddenly walked into the room where Ombra lay on a sofa 
by the fireside, with her mother sitting by. Both the ladies started 
up in dismay. They were so bewildered that neither could speak 
for a moment. The blood rushed to Ombra’s face in an overpow- 
ering blush. He thought he had never seen her look so beautiful, 
so strange — he did not know how; and her look of bewildered in- 
quiry and suspicion suddenly showed nim what he had never 
thought of till that moment— that he had no right to pry into their 


OMBEA. 


341 


privacy-— to hunt her, as it were, into a corner— to pursue her here. 

“Mr. Sugden!’' Mis. Anderson cried in dismay; and then she 
recovered her prudence, and held out her hand to him, coming be- 
tween him and Ombra. “ What a very curious meeting this is! — 
what an unexpected pleasure! Of all places in the world, to meet 
a Shanklin triend at Loch Arroch! Ombra, do not disturb your- 
self, dear; we need not stand on ceremony with such an old friend 
as Mr. Sugden. My poor child has a dreadful cold.” 

And then he took her hand into his own— Ombra’s hand— which 
he used to sit and watch as she worked— the whitest, softest hand. 
It felt so small now, like a shadow, and the flush had gone from 
her face. He seemed to see nothing but those eyes, watching him 
with fear and suspicion — eyes which distrusted him, and reminded 
him that he had no business here. 

And he sat down by the sofa, and talked ordinary talk, and told 
them of Shanklin, which he had left. He had been making a pe- 
destrian lour in Scotland. Yes, it was early, but he did not mind 
the weather, and the time suited him. It was a surprise to him to 
see Francesca, but he had heard that Mrs. Anderson had left Lang- 
ton-Courtenay — 

“ Yes,” she said, briefly, without explanation; and added— “ We 
were traveling, like you, when Ombra fell in love with this place. 
You must have seen it to perfection if you walked down the glen 
to-day— the Glencoe Hills were glorious to day. Which is your 
next stage? 1 am afraid Mrs. Macdonald has scarcely room — ” 

“ Oh I yes, she has given me a loom for to-night,” he said; and 
he saw the mother and daughter look at each ether, and said to 
himself, in an agony of humiliation, what a tool he had been— 
what an intrusive, impel tinent fooll 

When he took his leave, Mrs. Anderson went after him to the 
door; she asked, with trepidation in her voice, how long he meant 
to stay. This was too much for the poor fellow; he led the way 
along the passage to the staircase window, lest Ombra should hear 
through the halt-open door. 

“Mrs. Anderson,” he said, hoarsely, “once you promised me 
if she should ever want a brother’s help or a brother’s care— not 
that it is what I have wished—” 

“Mr. Sugden, this is ridiculous; 1 can take care of my own 
child. You have no right to come and hunt us out, when you 
know— when you can see that we wish — to be private.” Then, 
with a sudden change, she added—** Oh, you are very good— 1 am 


342 


OMBEA. 


sure you are very good, but she wants for nothing. Dear Mr. 8ug- 
den, if you care for her or me, go away.’’ 

“ 1 will go away to-morrow,” he said, with a deep sigh of dis- 
appointment and resignation. 

She looked out anxiously at the sky. It was clouding over; 
night was coming on — there was no possibility of sending him 
away that night. 

‘‘ Ml. Sugden,” she said, wringing her hands, “ when a gentle- 
man thrusts himself into any one’s secrets he is bound not to be- 
tray them. You will hear news here, which 1 did not wish to bo 
known at present— Ombra is married.” 

” Married!” he said, with a groan, which he could not restrain. 

‘‘ Yes, her husband is not able tc be with her. We are wailing 
till he can join us— till he can make it public. You have found 
this out against our will; you must give me your word not to be- 
tray us.” 

“Why should 1 betray you?” he said; “to whom? 1 came, 
not knowing. Since evef 1 knew her 1 have been her slave, you 
know, i will be so now. Is she — happy, at least?” 

“ She is veiy happy,” said Mrs. Anderson; and then her courage 
failed her, and she cried. She did not burst into tears— such an 
expression does not apply to women of hei age. The tears which 
were, somehow, near the surface, fell suddenly, leaving no liaces. 
“Everything is not so— comfortable as might be wished,” she 
said, “ but, so far as that goes, she is happy.” 

“ May 1 come again?” he said. His face had grown very Icng 
and pale; he looked like a man who had just come back from a 
funeral. “ Or would you rather 1 went away at once?” 

She gave another look at the sky, which had cleared; night was 
more distant than it had seemed ten minutes ago. And Mrs. An- 
derson did not think that it was selfishness on her part to think of 
her daughter first. She gave him her hand and pressed his, and 
said — 

“ You are the kindest, the best friend. Oh, for her sake, go!” 

And he went away with a heavy heart, striding over the dark un- 
known hills. It was long past midnight before he got shelter — 
but what did that matter? He would have done much more joy- 
fully for her sahe. But his last hope seemed gone as he went along 
that mountain way. He had hoped always to serve her some time 
or other; and now he could serve her nc more! 


OMBRA. 


343 


CHAPTER LXIll. 

This was the reason why Kate heard no more from Mr. Siigden. 
He knew, and yet he did not know. That which had been told 
him was very different from what he had expected to hear. He 
had gone to seek a deseited maiden, and he had found a wife. He 
liad gone with some wild hope of being able to interpose on her be- 
half, “ as her brother would have done,’' ami bring her false lover 
back to her — when, lol he found that he was intruding upon sa- 
cred domestic groand, upon the retreat of a wife whose husband 
was somewhere, ready, no doubt, to defend her from all intrusion. 
This confounded him for the first moment. He went away 
as we have said, without a word, asking no explanation? "What 
right had he to any explanation? Probably Ombra heiself, had 
she known what his mission and what his thoughts were, 
would have been furious at the impertinence. But her moth- 
er judged him more gently, and he, poor fellow, knew in his own 
soul how different his motives were from those of intrusion or im- 
pertinence. 

When he came to the homely, lonely little bouse, where he found 
shelter in the midst of the night, he stopped there in utter languor, 
still confused by his discovery and his failure. But when he came 
to himself he was not satisfied. Next day, in the silence and lone- 
liness of the mountains, he mused and pondered on this subject, 
which was never absent from his mind ten minutes together. He 
walked on and on upon the road he had traversed in the dark the 
night before, till he came to the point where it commanded the 
glen below, and where the descent to Loch Arroch began. He saw 
at his feet the silveiy water gleaming, the loch, the far lines of the 
withdrawing village roofs, and that one under which she was. At 
the sight the curate’s mournful heart yearned over the woman he 
loved. Why was she there alone, with ^>nly her mother, and she 
a wife? What w^as there that was not “ exactly comfortable/’ as 
Mrs. Anderson had said? 

The result of his musing was that he stayed in the little mountain 
change-house for some time. There was a desolate little loch near, 
lying, as in a nook, up at the foot of great Schehallion. And there 
he pretended to fish, and in the intervals of his sport, which was 
dreary enough, took long walks about the country, and, without 
being seen by them, found out a great deal about the two ladies. 


344 


OMBEA. 


Ttiey were alone. The young lady’s husband was said to be in 
foreign pairts.” Tne good people had not heard what he was, but 
that business detained him somewhere, though it was hoped he 
would be back before the autumn. “ And 1 wish he may, for yon 
bonnie young creature's sake!” the friendly wife added, wlic told 
him this tale. 

The name they told him she was called by was not a name he 
knew, which perplexed him. But when he lemembeied his own 
observations, and Kate’s story, he could not believe that any 
other lover could have come in. When Mr. Sugden liaci folly 
satisfied himself, and discovered all that was discoverable, be 
went back lo England with the heat of a sudden purpose. IJe 
went to London, and he sought out Bertie Hardwick’s rooms. 
Bertie himself was whistling audibly as Mr. Bugden knocked 
at his door. He was packing his portmanteau, and stopped 
now and then to utter a mild oath over the things which would not 
pack in as they ought. He was going on a journey. Perhaps to 
her, Mr. Sugden thought; and, as ho heard his whistle, and saw 
his levity, his blood boiled in his veins. 

“ What, Sugden!” cried Bertie. “Come in, old fellow, I am 
glad to see vou. Why, you’ve been and left Shanklin! What did 
you do that for’ The old place will not look like itself without 
you.” 

“ There are ether vacant places that will be felt more than 
mine,” said the curatq, in a funereal voice, putting himself sadly 
on the nearest chair. 

“ Oh! the ladies at the cottage! To be sure, you are quite right. 
They must be a dreadful loss,” said Bertie, 

Mr. Sugden felt that he flushed and faltered and these signs of 
guilt made it doubly clear. 

“ It is odd enough,” he said with double meaning, “that ^ve 
should talk of that, for 1 have just come from Scotland, from the 
Highlands, where, cf all people in the world, I met suddenly with 
Miss Anderson and her mother.” 

Bertie faced round upon him in the middle of his packing, 
which he had resumed, and said, “ Well!” in a querulous voice— a 
voice which already sounded like that of a man put on his defense. 

“ Well!” said the curate — “ 1 don’t think it is well. She is not 
Miss Anderson now. Bui 1 see you know that. Mr. Hardwick, if 
you know anything of her husbarid, 1 think you should urge him 
not to leave her alcne there. She looks —not very well. Poor Om- 
bra!” cried the curate, warming into eloquence. “ 1 have no right to 


OMBRA. 


345 


call her bv her name, but that 1—1 was fond of her too. 1 would 
have given my life for her! And she is like her name— she is like 
a shadow, that is ready to flit away.*' 

Bertie Hardwick listened with an agitated countenance — he giew 
red and pale, and began to pace about the room; but he made no 
answer — he was confused and startled by what his visitor said. 

** 1 daresay my confession does not interest you much,” Mi. !Sug* 
den resumed, ” 1 make it to show 1 have some right— to take an 
interest, at least. That woman tor whom 1 would give my life, Mr. 
Hardwick, is pining there for a man who leaves her to pine— a man 
who must be neglecting her shamefully, for it can not be Icng since 
he mariied her— ^a man who — ” 

“And pray, Mr. Sngdeu,” said Bertie, choking with apparent 
anger and agitation, “ where did you obtain your knowledge of this 
man?” 

“ !Not from her,” said the curate; “ tut by chance— by the in- 
quiries 1 made in my surprise. Mr. Hardwick, it you knew who it 
is who is so happy, and so negligent of his happiness — ” 

“Well?” 

“He has no right to stay away from her after this warning,” 
cried the curate, rising to his feet. “ Do you understand what a 
thing it is for me to come and say sc? to one who is throwing 
away what 1 would give my life fer? But she is above all. If he 
stays away from her, he will reproach himself for it all his life!” 

And with these words he turned to go. He had said enough 
—his owm eyes were beginning to burn and blaze. He felt that he 
might seize this false lover by the throat it he stayed longer. And 
he had at least dene all he could for Umbra. He had said enough 
to move any man who was a man. He made a stride toward the 
door in his indignation; but Bertie Hardwick interrupted him, with 
his hand on his arm. 

“ Sugden,” he said, with a voice full of emotion, “ 1 am not so 
bad as you think me; but I am not as good as you are. The man 
you speak of shall hear your warning. But there is one thing 1 
have a right to ask. What you learned by chance, you will not 
make any use of — not to her cousin, for instance, who knows 
nothing. You will respect her secret there?” 

“1 do not know that 1 ought to do so— but 1 promised her 
mother,” said the curate, sternly. “ Good-morning, Mr. Hard- 
wick. I hope you will act at once on what you have heard.” 

“ Won’t you shake hands?” said Bertie. 

The curate was deeply prejudiced against him— hated him in 


346 


OMBRA. 


his levity and carelessness, amusing himself while she was suffer- 
ing. But when he looked into Bertie’s face, his enmity melted. 
Was this the man who had done her— and him— so much wrong? 
He put out his hand with reluctance, moved against his will. 

“ Do you deserve it?” he said, in his deep voice. 

” Yes— so tar as honesty goes,” said tbe young man, with a 
broken, agitated laugh. 

The cuiate went away, wondering and unhappy. Was he so 
' guilty, that open-faced youth, who seemed yet too near boyhood to 
be an accomplished deceiver? ci was there still more in the mys- 
tery than met the eye? 

This was how^ Kate got no news. She looked for it for many a 
day. As the summer ripened and went on, a hungry thirst for in- 
formalion of one or another possessed her. Her aunt’s birthday let- 
ter had been a few tender wcrds only — words which were Immble, 
too, and sad. “ Poor Ombra,” she had said, “ was pretty well.” 
Poor Ombral why Ombra? Kate asked herself the question 
with sudden 5ts of anxiety, which she could cot explain to herself; 
and"sne began to watch for the post with almost feverish eagerness. 
But the suspense lasted so long, that' the keenness of the edge 
wore off again, and no news ever came. 

In July, however. Lady Oaryisfort came, having lingered on her 
way fiom Italy till it became too late to keep the engagement she 
had made with Mr. Courtenay for Kate’s first season in town. She 
was so kind as to go to Langton Courtenay instead, on what she 
called a long visit. 

“ Your uncle has to find out, like other people, that he will 
only find aid ready made to his hand when he doesn’t want it,” 
she said — ” that is the moment when everything becomes easy. I 
might have been of use to him, 1 know, two months ago— and ac- 
cordingly my private affairs detained me, and it is only now, you 
see, that 1 am here.” 

” 1 don’t see why you should have huriied for my uncle,” said 
Kale; “he has never come to see me, though he has promised 
twenty times. But you are welcome, always, whenever you please.” 

“ Thanks, dear,” said Lady Caryisfort, who was languid afler 
her journey. “He will come now, when you don’t want him. 
And so the aunt and the cousin are gene, Kate? You must tell 
me why. 1 heard, after you left Florence, lhai Miss Anderson had 
flirted abominably with both these young men— behind your back, 
my poor darling, when you were with me, I suppose; though 1 al- 
ways thought that young Eldridge would have suited you precisely 


OMBEA. 


347 


— two nice properties, nice families — everything that was nice. But 
an ideal match like that never comes to pass. 'I’hey tell me she 
was called la demoiselle d deux cavaliers. .Don't look shocked. Ot 
course, it could only be a flirtation; there could be nothing wrong 
in it. But, you dear little innocent, is this all new to you? ' 

** Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge used to go with us to a great 
many places; they were old friends," said Kale, with her cheeks 
and forehead dyed crimson in a moment; " but why people should 
say such disagreeable things—" 

" People always say disagreeable things," said Lady Caiyisfort; 
"it is the only occupation which is pursued everywhere. But as 
you did not hear about your cousin, 1 am glad to think you can 
not have heard of me." 

" Of you!" Kate’s consternation was extreme. 

" They were so good as to say 1 was going to marry Antonio 
Buoncompagni," said Lady Caryistort, calmly, smoothing away 
an invisible wrinkle from her glcve. But she did not look up, and 
Kate’s renewed blush and start were lost upon her— or perhaps not 
quite lost. There was a silence fcr a minute after, tor the tone, as 
well as the announcement, took Kate alt(»gether by surprise. 

" And are you?" she asked, in a low tone, after that pause. 

" 1 don’t think it," said Lady Caryisfort, slowly. " The worst 
is, that he took it into his head himself— why, heaven knows! for 1 
am — let me see— three, four, five years, at least, older than he is. 1 
think he felt that you had jilted him, Kate. No, it would be too 
much of a bore. He is very good-natured, to be sure, and too po- 
flte to interfere; but still, 1 don't think— Besides, you know, it 
would be utterly ridiculous. How could 1 call Elena Strozzi aunt? 
In the meantime, my Kate— my little heiress— 1 think 1 had better 
stay here and marry you." 

" But 1 don’t want to be married," cried Kate. 

" The very reason why you will be," said her new guardian, 
laughing. But the girl stole shyly away, and got a book, and pre- 
pared to read to Lady Caryistort. She was fond of being read to, 
and Kate shrunk with a repugnance shared by many girls from 
this sort of talk; and, indeed, 1 am not sure that she was pleased 
with the news. It helped to reproduce that impression in her mind 
which so many other incidents had led to. She had always re- 
membered with a certain amount ot gratitude poor Antonio’s last 
appearance at the railway, with the violets in his coat, and the ten- 
der, respectful farew^ell he waved to her. And all the lime he liad 
been thinking of Lady Caryistort! What a strange world it was, 


348 


OMBRA. 


in which everything went on in this bewildering, treacherous way! 
\Vas there nobody living who was quite true, quite real, meaning 
all he or she said? She began to think not, and her very brain reeled 
under the discovery. Her path was lull of shadows, which threat- 
ened and circled round her. Oh! Ombra, shadow of shadows, 
where was she? and where had disappeared with her all that ten- 
der, bright life, in which Kate believed everybody, and dreamed 
of nothing but sincerity and truth? It seemed to have gone for- 
ever, to return no more. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

All that summer, Mr. Sugden wandered about the world like a 
soul in pain. He went everywhere, unable to settle in one place. 
Some obliging friend had died, and left him a little money, and 
this was how he disposed of it. His people at home disapproved 
much. They thought he ought to have been happy in the other 
curacy which they had found him quite close to his own parish, 
and should have invested his legacy, and perhaps looked out for 
some nice girl with money, and married as soon as a handy living 
tell vacant. This routine, however, did not commend itself to his 
mind. He tore himself away from mothers’ meetings, and cloth- 
ing-clubs, and daily services; he went wandering, dissatisfied and 
unhappy, through the world. He had been crossed in 4ove. It is 
a thing people do not own to readily, but still it is nothing to be 
aHhamed of. And not only was it the restlessness of unhappiness 
that moved him; a lingering hope was yet in his mind that he might 
be of use to Ombra still. . He went over the route which the party 
had taken only a year before; he went to the Swiss village where 
they had passed so long, and was easily able to glean some informa- 
tion about the English ladies, and the one who was fond of the 
church. He went there after her, and knelt upon tlie white flags 
and wondered what she had been thinking of, and prayed for her 
with his face toward Madonna on the altar, with her gilt crown, 
and all her tali artificial lilies. 

Poor, honest, broken-hearted lover! If she had been happy, he 
would have been half cured by this time; but she was not happy 
— or, at least, be thought so, and his heart burned over her with 
regretful love and anguish. Oh, it Providence had but given her 
to him, though unworthy, how he would have shielded and kept 
Ik r from all evil! He wandered on to Florence, where he stayed 
for some time, with the same vain idol- worship. He remained 


OMBRA. 


349 


until the autumn flood of tourists began to arrive, and the English 
Church was opened. And it was here he acquired the information 
which changed all his plans. The same young clergyman who was 
a friend of Bertie Eldridge's, and had known the party in Flor- 
ence, returned again that winter, and officiated once more in the 
Conventicle of the English visitors. And Mr. Sugden had known 
him, too, at school or college; the two young clergymen grew in- 
timate, and, one day, all at once, without warning, the curate had 
a secret confided to him, which thrilled him through and through 
from head to heel. His friend told him of all the importunities 
he had been subjected to, to induce him to celebrate a marriage, 
and how he had consented, and how his conscience had been un- 
easy ever since. “ Was 1 wrong?” he asked his friend. “The 
young lady's mother was there and consenting, and the man— you 
know him— was of full age, and able to judge tor himselt; the 
only thing was the secrecy- do you think 1 w^as wrong?” 

Mr. Sugden gave no answer. He scarcely heard the words that 
■were addressed to him; a revolution had taken place in all his ideas. 
He had not spent more than half his legacy, and he had half the 
winter before him, yet immediately he made up his mind to go 
home. 

Two days after he started, and in a week was making his way 
down to Langton-Courtenay, for no very intelligible reason. What 
his plea would have been, had he been forced to give it, we can not 
tell, but he did not explain himself even to himself; he had a 
vague feeling that something new had come into the story, and that 
Kate ought to he informed — an idea quite vague, but obstinate. 
He went down, as he had gone before, to Westerton, and there 
engaged a fly to take him to Langton. But, when he arrived, he 
was startled to find the house lighted up, and all the appearance of 
company. He did not know what to do. There w^as a dinner- 
party, he was told, and he felt that he and his news, such as they 
were, could not be obtruded into the midst of it. He was possessed 
by his mission as by incipient madness. It seemed to him like a 
divine message, which he was bound to deliver. He went back to 
the little inn in the village and dressed himself in evening clothes — 
for he had brought his portmanteau on with him all the way, not 
having wits enough left to leave it behind. And when it was late, 
he walked up the long avenue lo the Hall. He knew Kate well 
enough, he thought, to lake so much liberty with her— and then 
his news! What was it that made his news seem so important to 
him? He could not tell. 


350 


OMBEA. 


Mr. Couitenay was at Langton, and so was Lady Caryisfort. The 
lady, who should ha've been mentioned first, had stayed with Kate 
for a fortnight on her first visit, and then, leaving her alone all tbe 
summer, had gone off upon other visits, promising a return m 
autumn. It was October now, and Mr. Courtenay too had at last 
found it convenient to pay his niece a visit. He had brought with 
him some people for the shooting, men, chiefly, of respectable age, 
with wiv-es and daughters. The party was highly respectable, but 
not very amusing, and indeed Lady Caryisfort found it tedious; 
but such as it was, it was the first party of guests which had ever 
been gathered under Kate's roof, and she was excited and anxious 
that everything should go off well. In six months more she would 
be her own mistress, and the undue delays which had taken place 
in her life were then to be all remedied. 

“You ought to have been introduced to the world at least two 
years ago,'' said I^ady Caryisfort. “ But never mind, my dear; it 
does not matter for you, and next season will make up for every- 
thing. You have the bloom of sixteen still, and you have Lang- 
ton Courtenay," the lady added, kissing her. 

To Kate there was little pleasure in this speech; but she swal- 
lowed it, as she had learned to swallow a great majy things. 

“ 1 have Langton-Courlenay," she said to herself with a smile 
of bitter indignation — “ that makes up for everything. That 1 have 
nobody who cares for me does not matter in comparison." 

But yet she was excited about her first party, and hoped with all 
her heart it would go off well. There were several girls besides 
herself; but there were cnly two young men — one a wealthy and 
formal young diplomatist, the other a penniless cousin of Lady 
Caryisfori's— “ too penniless and too foolish even to try tor an 
heiress," she had assured Mr. Courtenay. The rest were old bache- 
lors — Mr. Cuurtenay's own contemporaries, or the respectable mar- 
ried men above described. Al most safe party to surround an 
heiress, and not amusing, but still, as the first means of exercising 
her hospitality in her own house, exciting to Kate. 

The dinner had gone off well enough. It was a good dinner, and 
even Uncle Courtenay had been tolerably satisfied. The only thing 
that had happened to discompose Kate was that she had seen Lady 
Caryisfort yawn twice. But that was a thing scarcely to be guarded 
a/ainst. When the ladies got back to the drawing-roono, she felt 
that the worst, of her labors were over, and that she might rest; 
but her surprise was great when, half an hour later, she sudden- 
ly saw Mr. Sugden standing in a corner behind her. He had 


OMBKA. 


351 


come there as if by magic—like a ghost starting up out of nothing. 
Kate rose to her feet suddenly with a little cry, and went to him. 
What a good thing that it was a dull, steady-going party, not curi- 
ous, as livelier society is! She went up to him hurriedly, holding 
out her hand. 

“ Mr. Sugden! When did you come? 1 nevei saw you. Have 
you dropped through from the skies?” 

” I ought to apologize,” said the curate, growing red. 

” Oh, never mind apologizing! 1 know you have something to 
tell me!” cried Kate. 

” But how can 1 tell you here? Yes, it is something— not bad 
news— oh, not bad news— don't think so. 1 came off at once with- 
out thinking. A letter might have done as well; but 1 get con- 
tused, and don’t think till too late—” 

” ] am so sorry for you!” cried Kate impulsively, holding out her 
hand to him once moie. 

He took it, and then he dropped it, poor fellow 1 not. knowing what 
else to do. Kate’s hand was nothing to him, nor any woman’s, ex- 
cept the one which was given into another man’s keeping. He 
was still dazed with his journey, and all that had happened. His 
theory was that, as he had found it out another way, he was clear 
of his promise to Mrs. Anderson; and !hen he had to set a mistake 
right. How could he tell what harm that mistake might do? 

” Your cousin — is married,” he said. 

“ Married!” cried Kate. A slight shiver ran over her, a thrill 
that w^ent through her frame, and then died out, and left her quite 
steady and calm, But, somehow, in that moment her color, the 
bloom of sixteen, ai» Lady Caryisfort called it, died away from her 
cheek. She stood with her hands clasped, and her face raised, 
looking up to him. Of course it was only what she felt must hap- 
pen some day; she said to herself that she had Known it. There 
was nothing to be surprised about. 

“ She was married last year, in Florence,” the curate resumed. 
And then the thrill came back again, and so strcngly that Kate 
shook as if with cold. In a moment there rose up before her the 
group which she had met M the door-way on the Lung- Arno, the 
group w^hich moved so quickly, and kept so close together; Umbra 
leaning on her husband’s arm. Yes, how' olbd she had been! That 
was the explanation— at a glance she saw it all. Ohi heaven and 
earth, how the universe reeled under herl He nad loosed at her- 
self, spoken to her, touched her nand as only ne had ever touched, 
and looked, and spoken — after that! The blood ebbed away from 


362 


OMBKA. 


Kate’s heart, but though the world spun and swam sc in the un- 
certainty of space, that she feared every moment to fall, or rather 
to be dashed down by its swaying, she kept standing, to all ap- 
pearance immovable, before the tall curate, with her hands clasped, 
and a smile upon her pale face. 

“ Kate!” said some one behind her — “ Kate!” 

She turned round. It ivas Lady Caryistort who had called her. 
And what was there more to be told? Now she knew all. Spigot 
was standing behind her, with a yellow envelope upon a silver tray. 
A telegram — the first one she had ever got in her life! Ko civility 
Could hesitate before such a letter as that. But lor the news which 
she had just heard she would have been frightened, but that prep- 
aration had steeled her. She tore it open and read it eagerly. 
Then she raised a bewildered look to Lady Caryisfort and Mr. Sug- 
uen, who were both close by her. 

‘‘ 1 don’t understand it,” she said. ” She held it up to him, be- 
cause he was nearest. And then suddenly put up her hand to stop 
him, as he began to read aloud. ‘‘ Hush! hush! Mrs. HardwicK 
is here,” she said. 

“ "What is the matter?” said Lady Caryisfort, rising to shield this 
group, which began to attract the eyes of the party. ‘‘ Kate, what 
is your telegram about?” 

Kate held it out to her without a word. The message it con- 
tained was this: “ 8w Herbert Eldridge died here last nighV' 

” Sii Herbert Eldridge?” repeated Lady Caryisfort. ” What is 
he to you, Kate? What does it mean? Child, are you ill? Tou 
are like a ghost!” 

” He is nothing in the wcrld to me,” said Kate, rousing herself. 
‘‘ If 1 am like a ghost it is because— oh! 1 am so cold! — because— 
it is so strange! 1 never saw Sir Herbert Eldridge in my life. Mr. 
Sugden, what do you think it means?” 

She looked up and looked round tor the curate. He was gone. 
She gazed all round her in consternation. 

‘‘ Where is he?” she cried. 

‘‘ The gentleman you were talking to went out a minute ago. 
Who is he? Kate, dear, don’t look so strange. Who was this 
man, and what did he come to tell you about?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know,” said the girl, faintly, her eyes still seeding for 
him round the room. 1 don’t knpw where he came from, or where 
he has gone to. 1 think he must have been a ghost.” 

‘‘ What was he telling you— you must know that at least?” 

Kate made no reply. She pushed a chair toward the fire place. 


OMBRi.. 


and warmed her trembling fingers. She crushed up the big yellow 
envelope in her hand, under her laced handkerchief. 

“ ‘ Sir Herbert Eldridge «iied last night.’ What is that to me? 
What have 1 to do with it?” she said. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

The reason of Kate’s strange paleness and agitation was after- 
ward explained to be the fact that she had suddenly heard, no one 
knew how, of the death of Mrs. Hardwick’s brother; while that 
lady was sitting by her, happy and undisturhed, and knowing noth- 
ing, This was the reason Lady Caryistort gave to several of the 
ladies in the house, who remarked next morning on Miss Courte- 
nay’s looks. 

‘‘Poor Kate did not know what to do; and the feelings are 
strong at her age. J dare say Mrs. Hardwick, wheu she heard of 
it, took the news with perfect composure,” said Lady Caryisfort, 

but then at twenty it is difficult to realize that.” 

‘‘ Ah! now 1 understand,” said one of the ladies. ” It was told 
her, no douht, by that tall young man, like a clergyman, who ap- 
peared in the drawing-room all of a sudden, after the gentlemen 
came down-stairs, and disappeared again directly after.” 

‘‘Yes, you are quite right,” said Lady Caryisfort. She said so 
because she was aware that to have any appearance of mystery 
about Kate would be fatal to that brilliant debut which she intentled 
her to make; tut in her own mind she was much disturbed about 
this tall young man like a clergyman. She had questioned Kate 
about him in vain. 

‘‘ He is an cld fiiend, from where we lived in the Isle of Wight,” 
the girl explained. 

” But old fiiends from the Isle of Wight don’t turn up every- 
where like this. Did he come about Sir Heibert Eldridge?” 

‘‘ He know^s nothing about Sir Herbert Eldridge. He came to 
tell me about— my cousin.” 

‘‘Oh! your cousin! La demoiselle aux deux chevaliers,"' said 
Lady Caryistort. ‘‘ And did he bring you news of her?” 

“A little,” said Kate, faintly, driven to her wit’s end; but she 
was not a weak-minded young woman, to be driven to despair; 
and here she drew up and resisted. ‘‘ So little, that it is not worth 
repeating,” she added, hrmly. ” 1 knew it almost all befoie, but 
he was not aware of that. He meant it very kindly.” 


OMBRA. 


“Did he come on purpose, dear?“ 

“ Yes, 1 suppose so, the good fellow,'* said Kate, giatetully. 

“My dear, he may be a vciy good fellow; but curates are like 
other men, and don’t do such things without hope of reward, “ said 
Lady Caryisfort, doubtfully. “ So 1 would not encourage him to 
go on secret missions— unless 1 meant to reward him,” she added. 

“ He does not want any of my rewards,” said Kate, with that 
half bitterness of still resentment which she occasionally showed at 
the suspicions which were so very ready to enter the minds of all 
about her. “ 1 at least have no occasion to think as they do,” she 
added to herself, with a feeling of sore humility. “ Of all the 
people I have ever known, no one has given me this experience— 
they have all preferred her, without thinking cf me.” 

It was with this thought in her mind that she withdrew herself 
from Lady Caryisfort’s examination. She had nothing more to say, 
and she would not be made to say any more. But when she was 
in the sanctuary of her own room, she went over and over, with a 
heart which beat heavily within her breast, Mr. Sugden’s informa- 
tion. That Ombra should have married Bertie did not surprise her 
— that she had foreseen, she said to herself. But that they should 
have married so long ago, under her very eyes, as it were, gave her 
a strange thrill of pain through and through her. They had not 
told her even a thing so important as that. Her aunt and Ombra, 
her dearest friends, had lived' with her afterward, and kissed her 
night and morning, and at last had broken away from her, and 
given her up, and yet had never told her. The one seemed to Kate 
as wonderful as the other. Not in their constant companionship, 
not when that companionship came to a breach— neither at one 
time nor the other did they do her so much justice. And Bertie! — 
that was worst of all. Had his lookof gladness to see her at the 
brook in the park, when they last met, been all simulation?— or had 
it been worse than simulation?— a horrible disrespect, a feeling that 
she did not deserve the same observance as men were forced to show 
to other girls! When she came to this question, her brain swam so 
with wrath and a sense of wrong, that she became unable to dis- 
crindnate. Poor Kate! — and nothing of this did she dare to confide 
to a creature round her. She who had been so outspoken, so ready 
to disclose her thoughts— she had to lock them up in her own 
bosom, and never breathe a word. 

Unconnected with this, but still somehow connected with it, was 
the extraordinary message she had received. On examining ii 
afterward in her own room, she found it was sent to her by “ Ber- 


OMBEA. 


355 


tie.” What did it mean? How did he dare to send such a mes- 
sa£;e to her, and what had she to do with it? Had it been a mis- 
take? Could it have been sent to her, instead ol to the rectory? 
But Kate ascertained that a similar telegram had been received by 
the Hardwicks the same night, when they went home from her 
dinner-party. Minnie Hardwick stole up two days later to tell her 
about it. Minnie was very anxious to*do her duly, and to feel sad, 
as a girl ought whose uncle has just died; but though the blinds 
were all down in the rectory, and the village diess-maker and Mis. 
Hardwick’s maid were laboring night and day at ” the mourning, ” 
Minnie found it hard to be so heart-broken as she thought neces- 
sary. 

“It is so strange to think that one of one’s own relations has 
gone away to — to the Better Land,” said Minnie, with a very sol- 
emn face. “ 1 know 1 ought not to have come out, but 1 wanted 
so to see you; and when we are sorrowful, it is then our friends 
are dearest tc us. Don’t you think so, dear Kate?” 

“ Were you very fond of your uncle, Minnie?” 

“ 1—1 never saw veiy much of him. He has been thought to 
be going to die for ever so long,” said Minnie. “ He was very 
stout, and had not a very good temper. Oh! how wicked it is to 
remember that now I And he did not like girls; so that we never 
met. Mamma is very, very unhappy, ot course.” 

“Yes, it is of course,” Kate said to herself, with again that tinge 
of bitterness which was beginning to rise in her mind; “ even when 
a man dies, it is ot course that people are sorry. It 1 were to die, 
they would try how sorrowful they could look, and say how sad it 
was, and care as little about me as they do now.” This thought 
crossed her mind as she sat and talked to Minnie, who was turning 
her innocent little countenance as near as possible into the expres- 
sion of a mute at a funeral, but who, no doubt, in reality cared 
much more for her new mourning than for her old uncle — a man 
who had neither kindness to herself, nor general goodness to com- 
mend him. It was she who told Kate ot the telegram which had 
been found waiting at the rectory when they went home, and how 
she had remem hertd that Kate had got one too, and how strange 
such a coincidence was (but Minnie knew nothing of the news con- 
tained in Kate’s), and how frightened she always was for telegrams. 

“ They always bring bad news,” said Minnie, squeezing one in- 
nocent little tear into the corner of her eye. Her father had gone 
off immediately, and Beriie w.as already with his cousin. “It is 
he who will be Sir Herbert now,” Minnie said with awe; “ and 


356 


OHBBA, 


oh! Kate, 1 am so much atraid he will not De very sorry! His fa- 
ther was not very kind to him. They used to quariel sometimes 
— 1 ought not to say so, but 1 am sure you will never, never tell 
any one. Uncle Herbert used to get into dreadful passions when- 
ever Bertie was silly, and did anything wrong. Uncle Herbert used 
to storm so; and then it would bring on fits. Oh! Rale, shouldn’t 
we be thankful to Providence that we have such a dear, kind papa!” 

Thus this incident, which she had no connection with, aftected 
Kate's life, and gave a certain color to her thoughts. She lived, 
as it were, for several days within the shadow of the blinds, whicli' 
were drawn down at the rectory, and the new mourning that was 
being made, and her own private trouble, which was kept carefully 
hidden in her heart of hearts. This gave her such abundant food 
for thought, that the society of her guests was too much for her, 
and especially Lady Caryisfort’s lively cbservatiocs. fehe had to 
attend to them, and to look as cheerful as she could in the even- 
ings: but they all remarked what depression had stolen over her. 
“ She does not look the same creature,” the other ladies said to 
Lady Caiyisfort; and that lively person who had thought Kate’s 
amusing company her only indemnificai icn for putting up with all 
this respectability* yawned halt her lime away, and fdt furious 
with Mr. Courtenay for having deluded her into paying this visit at 
this particular lime. It does not do, she reflected, to put off one’s 
engagements. Had she kept her tryst in spring, and brought Kate 
out, and done all she had promised to do for her, probably she 
would have been married by this time, and the trouble of taking 
care of her thrown on other shoulders. Whereas, if she went and 
threw away her good looks, and settled into pale quietness and 
dullness, as she seemed about to do, there was no telling what a 
burden she might be on her friends. With these feelings in her 
mind, she told Mr. Courtenay that she thought that he had been 
very unwise in letting the Andersons slip through his fingers, 

“ They were exactly what she wanted; people who were amen- 
able to advice; who would do what you wished, and would take 
themselves off when .you were done with them — they were the very 
people for Kate, with her variable temper. It was a weakness 
which I did net expect in you, Mr. Courtenay, who know the 
world.” 

”1 never saw any signs of variable temper in Kate,” said Mr. 
Courtenay, J\'ho felt it necessary to keep his temper when he was 
talking to Lady Caryisfort. 

“Look at her now!” said that dissatisfied woman. And she 


OMBKA.. 


557 


added to herself that it was vain to tell her that liate knew nothing 
about Sir Ileibeit Eldridge, or that the strange appearance for 
half an hour, in the drawing-room, of the young maii who was liKe 
a clergyman had no connecticn with the change of demeanor which 
followed it. This was an absurd attempt to hoodwink her, a 
woman who had much experience in society, and was not easily 
deceived. And, by way or showing her sense of the importance of 
the subject, she began to talk to Kate of Bertie Eldridge, who had 
always been her favorite of the two cousins. 

“ Now his father is dead, he is worth youi consideration, ’’ she 
said. “ His father was an ill-tempered wretch, 1 have always 
heard; but the young man is very well, as young men go, and has 
a very nice estate. 1 have always thought nothing could be more 
fuitable. For my own part, 1 always liked him best — why? 1 
don’t know, except, perhaps, because most people preferred his 
cousin. 1 should think, by the way, that after knocking about the 
world with Bertie Eldridge, that young man will hardly he very 
much disposed to drop into the rectory here, like his father before 
him, which, I suppose, is his natural fate.” 

At that moment there came over Kate’s mind a recollection of 
the time when she had gravely decided to oppose Mr. Hardwick in 
the parish, and not to give his son the living. The idea brought an 
uneasy blush to her cheek. 

“ Mr. Bertie Hardwictt is not going in to the church; he read- 
ing for the bar,” she said. , 

” Well, 1 suppose the one will need as much work as the other,” 
said Lady Caryisfort. ‘‘Reading for the bail that sounds profit- 
able; but, Kate, if 1 were you, 1 would seriously consider the 
question about Berlie Eldridge. He is not bad-looking, and, un- 
less that old tyrant has been wicked as well as disagreeable, be 
ought to be very well off. The title is not much, but siill it is 
something; and it is a thoroughly good old family — as good as 
your own. 1 would net throw such a chance away.” 

” But 1 never had the chance, as you call it. Lady Caryisfort,” 
said Kate, with indignation, “ and 1 don’t wrant to have it; and 1 
would not accept it, it it was offered to me. Bertie Eldridge is 
nothing to me. 1 don’t even care for him as an acquaintance, and 
never did.’' 

‘‘ Well, my love, you know what a good authority has said— 
‘ that a little aversion is a very good thing to begin upon,’ ” said 
Lady Caryisfort, laughing; but in her heart she did not believe 
these protestations. Why should Kate have got that telegram it Sir 


358 


OMBEA. 


Her’bert W’as nothing to her? Thus, over wisdom led the woman 
of the world astray. 

Before long, Kate had forgotten all about Sir Herbert Eldridge. 
It was not half so important to her as the other news which no- 
body knew of — indeed, it was simply of no interest at all in com- 
parison. Where was Ombra now? and how must Bertie have de- 
ceived his family, who trusted in him; as much as his— wife— was 
that the w^ord? his wife had deceived herself. Where were they 
living? or were they together, or what had become of these two 
women? Then Kate’s heart melted, and she cried within herself. 
What had become of them? An unacknowledged wife I a woman 
who had to hide herself, and bear a name and assume a character, 
which was nol hers! In all the multitude of her thoughts, she at 
last stopped short upon' the ground of deep pity for her cousin, 
who had so sinned against her. Wfiere was she? under what name? 
in what appearance? The thought of her position, after all this 
long interval, with no attempt made to own her or set her right 
with the world, made Kate’s heart sick wiih compassion in the 
midst of her anger. And how vras she to find Ombra out? and 
when she had found her out, what was she to do? 


CHAPTER LX VI. 

It 1b hard to be oppressed with private anxiety and care in the 
midst of a great house full of people, who expect to be amused, 
and to have all their different wants attended to, both as rcgartts 
personal comfort and social gratification. Kate had entered upon 
the undertaking with great zeal and pleasure, but had been sud- 
denly chilled in the midst of her labors by the strange accidents 
w’hich disturbed her first dinner-party. She had been so excited 
and contused at the moment, that it had not occurred to her to re 
member that Mr. Sugden’s information was quite fragmentary, and 
that he did not tell her where to find her cousin, or give her any 
real aid in the matter. His appearance, and disappearance too, 
were equally sudden and mysterious. Siie ascertained from Spigot 
when he had come, and it was sufficiently easy to conaprehend the 
noiseless way he had chosen to appear before her, and convey bis 
news; but why had he disappeared when he saw the telegram? 
■yVliy had he said so little? \Vhy, ohl why had they all conspired 
to leave her thus, with painful scraps of information, but no real 
knowledge— alone among strangers, who took no interest in tier 


OMBKA. 


359 


perplexities, anti, indeed, had never learned Ombra’s name? She 
could not confide in Mrs. Hardwick, for many reasons, and there 
was no one else whom she could possibly confide in. 

She get so unhappy at last that the idea of consulting Lady 
Caryisfoit entered her mind more and more strongly. Lady Caryis- 
fort was a woman of the world. She would not be so shocked as 
goed Mrs. Hardwick would be; and then she could have no preju- 
dice in the matter, and no temptation to betray poor Ombra’s secret. 
Poor Ombra I Kate was not one of those people who can dismiss 
an oSender out of their mind as soon as his sin is proved. All 
kinds of relentings, and movements of pity, and impulses to help, 
came whispering about her after the first shock. To be sure Ombra 
had her mother to protect and care for her, and how could Kate 
interfere, a young girl? What could she do in the matter? But 
yet she felt that if she were known to stand by her cousin, it would 
be more diflScult for the husband to keep her in obscurity. And 
there was in her mind a longing that Bertie should learn that she 
knew, and know what her opinion was of the concealment and 
secrecy. She did as women, people say, are not apt to do. She 
threw all the blame on him. Her cousin had concealed it from her 
— but nothing more than that. He had done something more — he 
had insulted herself in the midst of the concealment. If Kale had 
followed her own first impulse, she would have rushed forth to 
find Ombra, she would have brought her home, she would have 
done what her husband had tailed to do — acknowledged, and put 
her in her right place. All these things Kate pondered and mused 
over, till sometimes the impulse to action was almost too much for 
her; and it was in these moments that she felt a longing and a 
necessity to consult some one, Ic relieve the pent-up anxieties in 
her own heart. 

It happened one afternoon that she was alone with Lady Caryis- 
fort, in that room which had been her sitting-room under Mrs. 
Anderson’s sway. That very fact always filled her with recollec 
tioDS. Now that the great drawing-room and all the house was 
open, this had become a refuge for people w^ho had ** headaches,” 
or any of the ethereal ailments common in highly refined circles. 
The ladies of the parly were almost all out on this particular after- 
noon. Some had gone into AYesterton on a shopping expedition. 
Some had driven to see a ruined abbey, one of the sights cf the 
neighborhood; and some had gone to the covert-side, with luncheon 
for the sportsmen, and had not yet returned. Kate had excused 
herself under the pretext of a cold, to remedy which she was 


360 


OMBKJL. 


seated close by the file, in a very low and comfortable easy-chalr. 
She had made no pretense at all to £;et rid of the rest of the party 
She was very pettish and discontented , reading a French novel, and 
wishing herself anywhere but there. There had been at least half 
an hour cf profound silence. Kate was doing nothing but think- 
ing; her head ached with it, and so did her heart. And when a girl 
of twenty, with a secret on her mind, is thus shut up with an elder 
woman whom she likes, with no one else within hearing, and after 
half an hour’s profound silence, that is the very moment in which 
a confidential disclosure is sure to come. 

“ Lady Caryisfort,” said Kate, faltering, “ 1 wonder if 1 might 
tell you something which 1 have very much at heart?” 

'* Certainly you may,” said Lady Caryisfort, yawning, arid clos- 
ing her book. “ To tell you the truth, Kate, 1 was just going to 
put a similar question.” 

” Aou have something on your mind too!” cried Kate, clasping 
her hands. 

“ Naturally— a great deal more than you can possibly have,” said 
her friend, laughing. ‘‘ But, come, Kate, you have the pas. Pro- 
ceed — your secret has the right of priority; and then 1 will tell you 
mine— perhaps— if it is not too great a bore.” 

” Mine is not about myself,” said Kale. “ If it had been about 
myself, 1 should have told you long ago— it is about— Ombra.” 

“Oh! about Ombra!” Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders, 
and the languid interest which she had been preparing to show sud- 
denly failed her. “ You think a great deal more about Ombra 
than she deserves.” 

“ Tou will net think so when you have heard her story,” said 
Kate, with some timidity, for she was quickly discouraged cn this 
point. While they w'ere speaking, a carriage wan heard to roll up 
the avenue. “ Oh!” she exclaimed, “ I thought we were sate. 1 
thought 1 was sure of you for an hour. And here are those tire- 
some people ceme back!” 

“An hour— all about Ombra!” Lady Caryisfort ejaculated, 
half within herself; and then she added aloud, “Perhaps some- 
body has come to call. Heaven send us some one amusing! for 1 
think you and 1, Kate, must go and hang ourselves if this lasts.” 

“ Oh! no; it must be the Wedderburns come back from Wester- 
ton,” said Kate, disconsolate. There were sounds of an arrival, 
without doubt, “ They will come straight up here,” she said, in 
despair. “ Since that day when we had afternoon lea here, we have, 
never been safe.” 


OMBRA. 


361 


It was a terrible reward for her hospitality; but certainly the 
visitors were coming up. The sound of the great hall-door rang 
through the house; and then Spigot’s voice, advancing, made it 
certain that there had been an ariival. The new-comers must be 
strangers, then, as Spigot was conducting them; and what stranger 
would take the liberty to come here? 

Kate turned herself round in her chair. She was a little flushed 
with the fire, and she was in that state of mind when people 4eel 
that anything may happen — nay, that it is contrary to the order of 
Nature when something does not happen, to change the aspect of 
the world. Lady Caryisfort turned away with a little shrug, which 
was half impatience, halt admiration of the girl’s readiness to be 
moved by anything new. She opened her book again, and went 
nearer the window. The light was beginning to fade, for it was 
now late in October, and winter might almost be said to have be- 
gun. The door opened slowly. The young mistress of the house 
stood like one spell-bouud. Already her heart forecasted who her 
visitors were. And it was not Spigot’s hand wliich opened that 
door. There was a hesitation, a tumbling and doubtfulness— and 
then— 

How dim the evening was I Who were the two people who were 
standing there looking at her? Kate’s heart gave a leap, and then 
seemed to stand still. 

“ Come in,’*' she said, doubtful, and faltering. And just then 
the fire gave a sudden blaze up, and threw a ruddy light upon the 
new-comers. Of course, she had known who it must be all along. 
Hut they did not advance; and she stood in an icy stupor, feeling 
as if she were not able to move. 

“ Kate,” said Ombra, from the door, ** 1 have been like an evil 
spirit to you. 1 will not come in again, unless you will give me 
your hand and say 1 am to come.” 

She put herself in motion then, languidly. How different a real 
moment of excitement always is from the visionary one which you 
go over and over in your own mind, and to which you get used in 
all its details 1 Somehow all at once she bethought heiself of Ger- 
aldine lifted over the threshold by innocent Christabel. She went 
and held out her hand. Her heart was beating fast, but dull, as 
if at a long distance off. There stood the husband and wife— two 
against ond. She quickened her steps, and resolved to spare her- 
self as much as she could. 

” Ombra,” she said, as well as her quick breath would let her, 


OMEA. 


86 ^ 

come in. 1 know. 1 have heard about it 1 am glad to receive 
ycu, and— and your husband/' 

“ Thanks, Kate,” said Ombra, with strange confusion. She had 
thought — 1 don’t know why— that she would be received with en- 
thusiasm corresponding to her own feelings. She came into the 
room, leaning upon him, as was natural, with her hand within his 
arm. He had the grace to be modest— not to put himself forward 
—or so, at least, Kate thought. But how much worse this moment 
was than she had supposed it would be! She felt herself tremble 
and tingle from head to heel. She forgot Lady Caryisfort, who 
was standing up against the light of the window, roused and in- 
quisitive; she turned her back upon the new-comers, even, and 
poked the fire violently, making the room full of light. The ruddy 
blaze shot up into the twilight; it sprung up, quivering and burn- 
ing into the big mirror. Kate saw the whole scene reflected there 
— the two figures standing behind her, and Ombra’s black dress; 
blacKi— why was she in black, and she a bride? And good heaven— 

She turned round breathless; she was pricked to the quick with 
anger and shame. ” Ombra,” she said, facing round upon her 
cousin, ” 1 told you 1 knew everything. Why do you come here 
thus with anybody but your husb*mdr This is Mr. Eldridge. Bid 
any one dare to suppose— Why is it Mr. Eldridge, and not him 
who has brought you here?” 

Ombra’s ice melted as when a flood comes in spring. She rushed 
to the reluctant, angry girl, and kissed her, and clung to her, and 
v.ept over her. ” Oh! Kate, don’t turn from me! Bertie Eldridge 
is my husband— no one else— and who else should bring me back?” 

Ho one but Ombra ever knew that Kale would have fallen, but 
for the strenuous giasp that held her up— no one but Ombra guessed 
what the convulsion of the moment meant Ombra felt her cousin’s 
arms clutch at her with the instinct of self-preservation— she felt 
Kate’s head drop quite passive on her shoulder, and with a new- 
born sympathy, she concealed the crisis which she dimly guessed. 
She kept whispering into her cousin’s ear, holding her fast, kissing 
her, terrified at the extent of the emotion which had been so care- 
fully and so long concealed. 

‘‘How let Kate shake hands at least with me,” said Bertie be- 
hind, “and. forgive me, if she can. It was all my fault. Ombra 
yielded to me because 1 would not give her any peace, and we 
dared not make it known. Kate, she has been breaking her heart 
over it, thinking you could never forgive her. Won’t you forgive 
me, loo?” 


OMBEA. 


Bertie Lldridge was a careless, light-hearted soul— one ot the 
men who run all kind of risks of ruin, and whom other people 
sutler for, but who always come out safe at the end. At tne sound 
of his ordinary easy, untragical voice, Kate roused herself in a 
moment. What had all this exaggerated feeling to do with him?” 

” Yes,” she said, holding out her hand, ” Bertie, 1 will forgive 
you; hut 1 would not have done so half an hour ago, if I had 
known. Oh! and here is Lady Caryisfort in the dark, while we 
are making fools of ourselves. Ombra, keep here; don't go away 
from me,” she whispered. ” 1 feel as if 1 cculd not stand,” 

” Kate, mamma is in your rocm; and one secret moie,” whis- 
pered Ombra. ” Oh! Kate, it is not half told! — Lady Caryisfort 
will forcive us— 1 could not stay away a day— an hour longer than 
1 could help.” 

” 1 will forgive you with all my heart, and 1 will take myself 
out of the way,” said Lady Caryisfort. 1 dare say you have a 
gieat deal to say to each other, and 1 congratulate you, at the same 
time, Lady Eldridge; one must take time for that.” 

‘‘Lady Eldridge!” crie.d Kate. Oh! liow lhankful she was to 
drcp out of Ombra's supporting arm into a seat, and to laugh, in 
order that she might not cry. ‘Then that was why 1 had the 
telegram, and that was why poor Mr. Bugden disappeared, that 
you mght tell me yourself? Oh! Ombra, are you sure it is true, 
and not a dream? Are you back again, and all the shadows flown 
away, and things come right?” 

‘‘ Except the one shadow, which must never flee away.” said 
Bertie, putting his arm round his wife’s waist. He was the fond- 
est, the most demonstrative of husbands, though only a fortnight 
ago— But it is needless to enlarge on what was past. 

‘‘ But, Kate, come to your room,” said Ombra, ” where mamma 
is waiting; and one secret more—” 


CHAPTER LXVll. 

Mrs.. Anderson was waiting in Kate’s room, when Maryanne, 
sympathetic, weeping and delighted, introduced her carefully. 
‘‘Oh, mayn’t 1 carry it, ma’am?” she cried, longing; and when 
that might not be, drew a chair to the fire — the most comfortable 
chair— and placed a footstool, and lingered by in adoring admira- 
tion. What was it that this foolish maiden wanted so much to 
go down upon her knees before and do fetish worship to? Mrs. 


364 


OMBBi.. 


Anderson sat and pondered over this one remaining secret, with a 
heart that was partly joyful and partly heavy. This woman was a 
compound of worldliness and of something belter. In her worldly 
part she was happy and triumphant, but in her higher part she was 
more humbled, almost more sad, ihan when she went away in what 
she had felt to be shame fium Langton-Couitenay. She felt for 
the shock that this discover}'- would give to Kate's spotless maiden 
imagination, unaware of the possibility of such mysteries. She 
felt more for Kate than for her own child, who was happy and 
victorious. She sent Maryanne away to watch, and waited 
very nervously, with a tremble in her frame. How would 
Kate take it? How would she take ihiSy which lay upon Mrs, 
Anderson's knee? She would not have the candles lighted. The 
dark, which half concealed and half revealed her, was kinder, 
and would keep her secret best. A film seemed to come ever her 
e 3 ^es when she saw the two young women come into the room to- 
gether. The first thing she was sure of was Kate's arms, which 
crept round her. and Kate’s voice in her ear crying, “Oh! aunty, 
how could you leave me—olil how could you leave me? X have 
wanted you so!" 

“ Take it!" cried Mrs. Anderson, with sudden energy; and when 
the white bundle had been removed from her knee, she clasped her 
second child in her arms. It is not often that a mother gets to 
love an adopted child in competition with her own; but during 
all this past year Kate had appeared betore her many a day, in the 
sweet docility and submission of her youth, when Ombra was fret- 
ful, and exacting, and dissatisfied. The poor mother had not ac- 
knowledged it to lierself, but she wanted those aims round her — 
she wanted her other child. 

“ Oh!" she said, but in a whisper, “ my darling! 1 can never, 
never tell you how 1 have wanted you!" 

“Here it is!" cried Ombra, gayly. “ Mamma, let her look at 
him, you can kiss her after. Kate, here is my other secret. Light 
the candles, Maryanne — quick, that your mistress may see my 
boy." 

“Yes, my lady," cried Maryanne, full of awe. 

A little laugh of unbounded happiness and exultation came from 
Ombra’s lips. To come back thus triumphant, vindicated from 
all reproaches; to have the delight of showing her child; to be 
reconciled, and at last at liberty to love her cousin without any 
jealousy or painful sense cf contrast; and, finally, to hear herself 
called my lady— all combined to fill up the measure of her content.. 


OMBRA. 


865 


Up to this moment it had not occurred to Kate what the other 
secret was. Mrs. Anderson felt the girl's arms lighten round her, 
fell the sudden leap cf her heart. Who will not understand what 
that movement of shame meant? It silenced Kate’s very heart for 
the moment. This shocK was greater than the first shock. She 
blushed crimson on her aunt’s shoulder, where happily no one saw 
her. Her thouchts wandered back over the past, and she felt as it 
there was something shameful in it. This was absurd, of course, 
but it was some moments befcre she could so far overcome herself 
as to raise her head in answer to her cousin’s repeated demands. 

“ Took at him, Kate!— look at him! Mamma will keep— you 
can have her afterward. Look at my boy!” 

Ombra was disinterring the baby out of cloaks and veils and 
shawls, in which it was lost. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes 
sparkling with happiness. In her heart there was no sense of shame. 

But we need not linger over this scene. Kate was glad, veiy 
glad, to get free from her duties that evening— to escape from the 
dinner and the people, as well as from the baby, and get time to 
think of it all. What were her feelings when she sat down alone, 
after all this flood of new emotions, and realized what had hap- 
pened? The shock was over. The tingling of wonder, of pleas- 
ure, of pain, and even of shame, which had confused her senses, 
was over. She could look at everytning, and see it as it was. And 
as the past rose out of the mists elucidated by the present, of course 
it became apparent to her that she ought to have seen the true stale 
of affairs all the time. She ought to have seen that there was no 
affinity between Bertie Hardwick and her cousin, no natural fit- 
ness, no likelihood, even, that they could choose each other. Of 
course she ought to have seen that he had been made a victim of, 
as she herself had been made a victim cf. though in a less degree. 
IShe ought to have known that Bertie, he whom she had once called 
her Bertie, in girlish, innocent freedom (though she blushed to re- 
call it), could not have been disrespectful to herself, nor treacher- 
ous, nor anything but what he was. She owed him an apology, 
she said to herself, ^ with cheeks which glowed with generous shame. 
She owed him an apology; and she would make it, whenever it 
should be in her power. 

As for all the other wonderful events, they gradually stele off 
into the background, compared with this central fact that she owed 
an apology to Bertie. She fell asleep with this thought in her 
mind, and, waking in the moining, felt so happy thai she asked 
instinctively what it was. And the answer was, “ 1 must make 


365 


OMBBA. 


an apology to Bertie!'' Ombra and her mysteries, and her new 
grandeur, and even her baby, faded ofi into nothing in comparison 
with this. Somehow that double secret seemed to be almost a 
hundred years old. The revelation of Bertie Hardwick's blame- 
lessness, and the wrong she had done him, was the only thing that 
was new. 

Sir Herbert and Lady Eldtidge stayed at La cfgl on Courtenay for 
about a week before they went home, and all the minor steps in the 
matter were explained by degrees. He had rushed clown to Loch 
Arroch, where she had been all this time, Ic fetch his wife, as soon 
as his father's death set him free. With so much depending on 
that event, Bertie Eldridgo could scarcely, with a good grace, pre- 
tend to be sorry for his father; but the fact that Sir Herbert's had 
been a triumph, and not a sorrow to him, was chiefly known away 
from home, and when he went back he went in full pomp of 
mourning. The baby even wore a black ribbon round its uncon- 
scious waist, for the grandpapa who would have disinherited it 
had he known of its exisence. Probably nobody made much com- 
ment upon “ the Eldridges." They were accepted, all things hav- 
ing come right, without much censure, if with a great deal ot sur- 
prise. It was bitter for Mrs. Hardwick to realize that “ that 
insignificant Miss Anderson " was the wife of the head of her 
house, the mistress of all the honors and riches of the Eldridges; 
but she had to swallow it, as bitter pills must always be swallowed. 

“ Heaven be praised, my Bertie did not fall into her snares! 
Though 1 always said his taste was too good for such a piece ot 
folly!" she said, taking the best piece of comfort which remained 
to her. 

Bertie Hardwick came down to spend Christmas with his family, 
and it was not an uncheerful one, though they were all m mourn- 
ing. It was not he, but bis cousin, who had sent the telegram to 
Kate, in the confusion ot the moment, not remembering that to her 
it would convey no information. But when the little party who 
had been, together in FloVence met again now, they talked ot every 
subject on earth but that. Instinctively they avoide'd the recollec- 
tion of these confused months, which had brought so much Buffer- 
ing in their train. The true history came to Kate in confidential 
interviews with her aunt, and was revealed little by little. It was 
to shield Bertie Eldridge from the possibility of discovery that 
Bertie Hardwick had been forced to make one cf their party contin- 
ually, and to devote himself, in appearance, to Ombra as much as 
her real lover did. He had yielded to his cousin's pleadings, hav- 


OMBRA. 


367 


ing up to that time had no thought nor desire which the other Ber- 
tie had not shared. But this service which had been exacted from 
him had broken his bonds. He had separated from his cousin im- 
mediately on their return, and began his independent life, though 
he had still continued to be, when it was not safe for them to meet, 
the mode of communication between Ombra and her husband. 

All this Kate learned, partly from Mrs. Anderson, partly at a 
later period. She did not learn, however, what a dreary lime had 
passed between the Bight of the two ladies from Langlon- Courtenay 
and their return. Her aunt did not tell her what wretched doubts 
had beset them, what sense of neglect, what terrors for the future. 
Bertie Eldridge had not been so anxious to shield his wife from the 
consequences of their imprudence as he ought to have been. But 
all is well that ends well. His father had died in the nick of time, 
and in Ombra’s society he was the best of young husbands— proud, 
and fond, and happ3^ There was no fault to be found in him now^ 
When “ the Jlldridges went to their house, in great pomp and 
state, they left Mrs. Anderson with Kate; and lo Kate, after they 
were gone, the whole seemed like a dream. Bhe could scarcely 
believe that they had been there— that all the strange story was 
true. But she had perfectly recovered of her cold, and of her de- 
spondency, and was in such bloom when she took leave of her de- 
parting guests that all sorts of compliments were paid to her. 

“Your niece has blossomed into absolute beauty,’* said one of 
the old fogies to Mr. Courtenay. “You have shut her up a great, 
deal too brng. What a sensation she will make with her fortune, 
and with that face!” 

Mr. Courtenay shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace. 

“ 1 don’t see what good that face can do her,” he said, gruffly. 
He was suspicious, though he scarcely knew what he was suspicious 
of. There seemed to him something more than met the eye in this 
Eldridge business. Why the deuce had not that girl with the ri- 
diculous name married young Haid wick, as she ought to have done it 
He was the first who had troubled Mr. Courtenay’s mind with pre- 
visions of annoyance respecting his niece. And, lo! the fellow was 
coming back again, within reach, and Kale was almost her own 
mistress, qualified to execute any folly that might come into her 
head. 

There was, however, q lull in all proceedings till Christmas, when, 
as we have prematurely announced, but as was very natural^ Bertie 
Hardwick came home. Mr. Courtenay, too, being suspicious, came 
again lo Langton-Courtenay, feeling it necessary to be on the spot. 


368 


OMBEl. 


It was a very quiet Christmas, and nothing occurred to alarm any 
one until the evening ot Twelfth Day, when there was a Christmas- 
tree in the scho<^l-room, tor the school children. It had been all 
planned before Sir Herbert’s death; and Mrs. Harilwick decided 
that it was not right the children should sufter “ for our affliction — 
with such an object in view 1 hope 1 can keep my feelings in 
check,” she said. And indeed the affliction ot the rectory was' 
kept very properly in check, and did not appear at all in the school- 
room. Kate enjoj^ed this humble festivity with the most thorough 
relish. She was a child among the children. Her spirits were 
cverflowing. To be sure, she was not even in mourning; and when 
all was over, she declared her intention of walking home up the 
avenue, which, all in its winter leaflessaess, was beautitul in the 
moonlight. It was a very clear, still winter night— hard frost and 
moonlight, and air which was sharp and keen. as ice, and a great 
deal more exhilarating than champagne to those whose lungs were 
sound, and their hearts light. Bertie walked with her, after she 
had been wrapped up by his sisters. Her heart beat fast, but she 
was glad of the opportunity. Ho appropriate moment had occurred 
before; she would make her apology now. 

They had gone through the village side by side, talking of the 
school children and their delight; but as they entered the avenue 
they grew more silent. “ Kow is my timel” cried Kate to herself; 
and though her heart leaped to her mouth, she began bravely, 

“ Mr. Bertie, there is something 1 have wished to say to you ever 
since Umbra came back. 1 did you a great deal ot injustice. 1 
want to make an apology.” 

“ An apology!— to me?” 

‘‘ Yes, to you. 1 don’t know that 1 ever did anybody so much 
wrong. 1 do not want to blame Bertie Eld ridge. It is all right 
now, I suppose; but 1 thought once that you were her — 

Bertie Hardwick turned quickly round upon her, as if in resent- 
ment; his gesture felt like a moral blow. Wounded surprise and 
resentment — was it resentment ? And somehow, though the white 
moonlight did not show it, Kate felt that she blushed. 

‘‘ Please don’t be angry. 1 am confessing that 1 was wrong; and 
I never felt that you could have done it,” said Kate, in a low voice. 

” 1 believed it, and yet I did not believe it. That was the sling. 
To think you could have so little faith in me— could have deceived 
me, when we are such old friends!” 

” And was that all?” he said. ‘‘ Was it only lha concealment 
you thought me incapable af?” 


OMBRjL. 


369 


“ The concealment was the only thing wicked about it, 1 sup- 
pose,’' said Kate, “ now ihat it has turned out ail right.” 

Bertie took nc notice of the unconscious humor of this defini- 
tion. He turned to her again with a certain vehemence, which 
seemed to have some anger in it. 

“Kay,” he said, almost sharply, “there was more than that. 
Tou knew 1 did not love Umbra— -you knew she was nothing to 


me. 


“ 1 did not— know— anything about it,” faltered Kate. 

“ How can you say so? Do you mean th^t you have ever doubt- 
ed for a moment — that you have not known — every day we have 
been together since that day at the brook side? Bah! you want to 
make a fool of me. You tempt me to put things into words that 
ought not to be spoken.” 

“ But, Mr. Bertie,” said Kate, after a pause to make sure thc^t he 
had stopped— and her voice was child-like in its simplicity, “ 1 like 
things to be put into words— 1 don’t like people to bieak off in the 
middle. You were saying si^e that day by the brook-side?” 

He turned to her with a short, agitated laugh. “ Perhaps you 
don’t remember about it,” he said. “ 1 do— everything that hap- 
pened " ' ^as said — every one of the tears. You 



don’t cry now as /ou used to do, or open your heart.” 

“1 don’t cry when people can see me,” said Kate, “i have 
cried enough, if you had been in the way to perceive it, this last 
year.” 

“ My poor, sweet — ” Here he stepped; his voice had melted and 
changed. But all of a sudden he stopped short, with quite a differ- 
ent kind of alteration. “ Should you be afraid to go the rest of 
the way alone?” he said abruptly. “ 1 will stand here till i see 
you on the steps, and you can call to me if you are afraid.” 

“ 1 am not in the least afraid,” said Kate, proudly. “ 1 was 
quite able to walk up the avenue by myselt, if that was all.” And 
then she laughed. “ Mi. Bertie,” she said, demurely, “ it is you 
who are afraid, not 1.” 

“ 1 suppose you are right,” he said. “ Well, then, as you are 
strong, be merciful— don’t tempt me. If you like to know that 
there is some one to be dragged at your chariot wheels, it would 
be easy to give you that satisfaction. Perhaps, indeed, as we have 
begun upon this subject, it is better to have it out.” 

Much better, 1 think,” said Kate, with a glibness and ease 
which surprised herself. Was it because she was heartless? The 


370 


OMBEA, 


fact was rather that she was happy, which is a demoralizing cii^cum- 
stance in some cases. 

“ Well,'* he said, with a hard breath, “ since you prefer to have 
it in plain words, Miss Courtenay, you may as well know, once foi 
all, that since that day at the brook-side 1 have thought of no one 
but you. 1 don’t suppose it is likely 1 shall ever think of any one 
else all my life in that way. It can be no pleasure to me to speak, 
or to you to hear, of any such hopeless and insane notion. It is 
more ycur fault than mine, after all; for it you had not cried, 1 
should not have leaped over the hedge, and trespassed, and—” 

“ What would you do?” said Kate softly, “ if you saw the same 
sight again now?” 

” Do?” he said, with an unsteady laugh—” make an utter fool 
of myself, I suppose— as, indeed, 1 have done all along. 1 am such 
a tool still, that 1 can’t teat to be cross-examined about my folly. 
Don’t say any more about it, please.” 

“Bill, it 1 were you, 1 would say a great deal more about it,” 
said Kate, growing breathless with her resolution. ” Look here, 
Bertie— don’t start like that— of course I have always called you 
Bertie within myself. 1 wonder hew the Queen felt, when— 1 am 
very, very much ashamed of myself; but you .can’t see me, which 
is one good thing. Is it because I am rich you are afraid? For if 
that is all—” 

” What then?— what then, Kate?” 

Half an hour after, Kate walked into the little drawing-room, 
where so many things had happened, where her aunt was sitting 
alone, wailing for her return. Her eyes were like two stars, and 
blazed in the light which dazzled them, and filled them with moist- 
ure. A red scarf, which had been wrapped round her throat, hung 
loosely over her shoulders. Her face was all aglow with the^lear, 
keen night air. She came in quietly, and came up to Mrs. Ander- 
son, and knelt down by her side in front of the fire. ” Aunt,” she 
said, ” don’t be angry. 1 have been doing a very strange thing. 1 
hope you will not think it wicked. 1 have proposed to Bertie 
Hardwick.” 

” Kate, my darling, are you mad?— are you out of your senses?” 

” 1^0,” said the girl quietly, and with a sigh. ” But 1 am a kind 
cf a princess. What can I do? He gave me encouragement, auntie, 
or 1 would not have done it; and 1 think he has accepted me,” she 
said, with a laugh; then, putting down her crimsoned face upon 
the lap of the woman who had been a mother to her, burst into a 
tempest of tears. 


OMBBA. 


371 


CHAPTER LXVni 

Thebe is nothing perfect in this world. If Bertie Hardwick had 
been like his cousin, a great county potentate, on the same level as 
Miss Courtenay of Langton-Courtenay, they would both have been 
happier in their betrothal. Royal marriages are sometimes very 
happy, but it must be hard upon a queen to be obliged to take the 
initiative in such a matter; and it was hard upon Kate, notwith- 
standing That she did it bravely, putting away all false pride. And 
though Bertie Hardwick went home floating, as it were, through 
the wintery air, in one sense, in a flood of delicious and unimagin- 
able happiness; yet, in another sense, he walked very prosaically 
along a flinty, frost-bound road, and knocked his feet against 
stones and frozen cart-ruts, as he took the short way home to the 
rectory. Cold as it was, he n^alked about the garden half the 
night, and smcked out many cigars, half thinking of Kate's love- 
yness and sweetness, half of the poor figure he would cut — not 
even a briefless barrister, a poor Templar reading for the law-— as 
the husband of the great heiress. Why had not she been Ombra, 
and Ombra the heiress? But, m that case, of course, they could 
not have married, or dreamed of marrying at all. He thought it 
over till his head ached, till his brain swam. Ought he to give up 
such a hope? ought he to wound her and destroy all his own hopes of 
happiness, and perhaps hers because she was rich and he w'aspoor? 
or should he accept this happiness which was put into his hands, 
which he had never hoped for, never dared to do anything to gain? 

His mother waking, and hearing steps, rushed to the window in 
the cold, and looking out saw the red glow of his cigar curving 
round and round, and out and in among the trees. What could be 
the matter with the boy? She opened the window, and put out her 
head, though it was so cold, and called to him that he would get 
his death; that he would be frost-bitten; that he was mad to ex- 
pose himself so. “ My dear boy, for heaven’s sake, go to bed!” 
she cried; and her voice rang out into the deep night and stillness 
so that it was beard in the sexton’s cottage, where it was supposed 
to be a cry for help against robbers. Old John drew the bed- 
clothes over his old nose at the sound, and breathed a sigh for his 
rector, who, he thought, was probably being shiothered in his bed 
at that moment— but it was too cold lo interfere. 


372 


OMBRA. 


Next morning, Bertie had a long conversation with his father, 
and the two together proceeded to the Hall, where they had a still 
longer interview with Mr. Courtenay. It was not a pleasant inter- 
\iew. Kate had already seen her uncle, as in duty bound, seeing 
the part which she bad taken upon herself in the transaction, and 
Mr. Courtenay had foamed at the mouth with disgust and rage. 

“ Is it for this 1 have watched over you so carefully?’* he cried, 
half-frantic. 

“ Have you watched over me carefully?” said Kate, looking at 
him with her bright eyes. 

And what could he reply? She \«ould be of age in six months, 
and then it would matter very little what objections or difficulties 
he might choose to make. It was with the full consciousness of 
this that all parties discussed the question. Had the heiress been 
eighteen, things would have borne a very different aspect; hut as 
she was nearly twenty-one, with the shadow of her coming inde- 
pendence upon her, she had a right to her own opinion. Her 
guardian did all a man could do in the circumstances to make him- 
self disagreeable, but that could not, of course, last. 

And when it was all over, the news went somehow like an 
electric shock through the whole neighborhood. The rectory re- 
ceived it hrst, and lay for ten minutes tor so as it stunned by the 
blow; and then gradually, no one could tell how, it spread itself 
abroad. It had been fully determined that Bertie should return to 
town two days after Twelfth Night: but now he did not return to 
town— what was the use? ‘If 1 must be Prince Consort,” he 
said, with a sigh, that was half real and half fictitious, “ 1 had 
better make up my mind to it, and go in for my new duties.” 
These duties, however, consisting, in the meantime, in hanging 
about Kate, and following her everywhere. They were heavy 
enough, for she teased him, as it was in her nature to do; but he 
did not feel them hard. They made a pilgrimage to the biook-side, 
where, as Kate said, “it was all settled,” six years ago. They 
talked over a thousand recollections, half of which would never 
have occurred to them but for this sweet leisure, and the new light 
under which the past glowed and shone. They did a great many 
foolish things, as was to be expected; and they were as happy as 
most clher young people in the same toclish circumstances. It 
was only when he was away from her that Bertje ever grew red at 
the thought of the contrast of fortune. He called himself Prince 
Consort in Kate’s company; but then the title did not hurt. It did 
— a little— when he was alone, and had time to think. But, after 


OMBRA. 


373 


all, even when there is a piick like this in it, it Is easy to content 
one’s self with happiness, ana to find a score of excellent leasons 
why that, and nothing else, should be one’s lot. 

Lady Caryisfort had gone away a week before. She came back, 
when she heard of it, in consternation, to remonstrate, if thai was 
possible. But when she arrived at Langton-Courtenay, and saw 
how things were. Lady Caryisfort was much too sensible a woman 
to make herself disagreeable. She said, on the contrary, that she 
had divined how it would be fiom the beginning, and had been 
quite ceitain since the marriage of “the Eldridges ” had been 
made known to the world. 1 hope what she said was true; but it 
was not to say this th'al she had come all the way from Dorsetshire. 
She remained only two days, and took a very afieclionate leave of 
Kate, and sent her a charming present when she married; but it 
was a long time before they met again, it was ,disappointina not 
to have an heiress to present to the world, to carry about in her train; 
but then it was her own fault. Had she not lingered in Italy till 
the last season w'as over, how different things might have been! She 
had no good answer to give to Mr. Courtenay when he taunted her 
with this. She knew very well herself why she lingered, and 
probably so did he; and it had come to nothing after all. However, 
w€ may say, for the satisfaction of the reader, that it did not end 
in nothing. Lady Caiyistort continued her independent, and, as 
people said, enjoyable life for some years more. Then it suddenly 
occurred to her all at once that to go every year from London to 
Paris, and from Paris to Italy, and from Italy back to London, 
with a quantity of dull visits between, was an unprofitable way of 
spending one’s life; so she went to Florence early one season, and 
married Antonio Buoncompagni after all. 1 hope she was very 
comtoitable, and liked it; but, at all events, so far as this story is 
concerned, there was an end of her. 

Mrs. Anderson stayed with her niece for a very long time; 
naturally her presence was necessary till Kate married— and then 
she returned to receive the pair when they came back after their 
honeymoon. But when the honeymoon was long ovei Mrs. Ander- 
son still stayed, and was more firmly established at Langton- 
Courtenay than in her daughter’s great house, where old Lady El- 
dridge lived with the young people, and where sometimes there were 
shadows visible, even on tne clear sky of prosperity and well-doing. 
Ombra was Ombra still, even when she was happy — a nature often 
sweet, and never intentionally unkind, but apt to become self- 
absorbed, and disposed to be cloudy. Her mother never uttered a 


374 


OMBRA. 


word of complaint, and was very happy to pay her a visit now and 
then; but her home gradually became fixed with her adopted child. 
She and cld Francesca taded and grew old together—'lhat is to say, 
Mrs. Anderson grew older, while h rancesca bloomed perennial, no 
more aged at seventy, to all appearance, than she had been at fifty. 
Never was such an invaluable old woman in a house. She was the 
joy of all the young generation for twenty years, and her stories 
grew more full of detail and more lavishly decorated with circum- 
stances erery day. 

There is not much more to add. If we went further on in the 
history, should we not have new threads to take up, perhaps new 
complications to unravel, new incidents with every new hour? 
For life does not sit still and fold its hands in happiness any more 
than in sorrow — something must always be happening; and when 
Providence does not send events, we take care to make them. But 
Providence happily provided the events in the house of Kate and 
Bertie. He made an admirable Prince Consort. He went into 
Parliament and took up politics warmly, and finally gat up to a 
secondary seat in the Cabinet, which Kate was infinitely proud of. 
Bhe made him rich and important— which, after all, as she said, 
were things which any cheesemonger’s daughter could have done, 
who had money enough. But he made her, whal lew people could 
have done, the wife of a Cabinet Minister. When the Right Hon- 
orable H. Hardwick came down to AVetterton, the town took off 
its hat to him, and considered itself honored as no Mr. Courtenay 
of Langton* Courtenay had ever honcred it. Thus things went 
well with those who aimed well, which does not always happen, 
though sometimes it is permitted us tor the consolation of the race. 


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70 AVhite AVings: A Yachting Ro- 
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124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. ^ 

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263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

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433 My Sister Kate IG 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 2( 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

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469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

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880 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

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693 Berna Boyle 20 

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690 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 20 

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109 Little Loo 20 

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209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

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592 A Strange Voyage 20 

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364 Castle Dangerous 10 

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392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth; or, St. 

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418 St. Ronan’s Well 2d 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

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507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
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429 Boulderstone ; or. New Men and 

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580 The Red Route 20 

597 Ilaco the Dreamer 10 


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348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

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367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 


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99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

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103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

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112 The Waters of Marah. John 

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114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

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115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

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120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
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122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

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127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy .... 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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150 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

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151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

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156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

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158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 
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160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

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161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

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170 A Great Treason. Ma'ry Hop- 

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174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

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242 The Two Orphans, D’Ennery. 10 
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462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
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468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
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473 A Lost Son. Blary Linskill 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

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479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

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491 Society in London. A Foreign 

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493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

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501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

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510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

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504 Curly; An Actor’s Stoiy. John 

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Colquhoun 10 

625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

627 White Heather. By William 

Black 20 


NO. PRICE. 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of ‘-My Lady’s Folly 20 

629 Cripps,'' the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

631 Christowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

632 Clara Vaughan. ByR.D. Black- 

more 20 

634 The Unforeseen. By Alice 

O'Hanlon 20 

635 Mm*der or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

637 What’s His Offence ? A Novel. 20 

638 In^Quarters with the 25th (The 

.(Hlack Horse) Dragoons. By 
■'J. S. Winter 10 

639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 The Sketch-book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

R h o d a Broughton, and 
Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

646 The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647 Goblin Gold. By May (jrom- 

melin 10 

648 The Angel of the Bells. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

651 “Self or Bearer” By Walter 

Besant 10 

652 The Lady With the Rubies. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

653 A Barren Title. T. W. Speight 10 

654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 

trait. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Win. Senior... 10 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

658 The History of a Week. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dr0ss 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

WUNKO’S PUBLUSHIING HOUSE, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


NEW TABERNACLE SERMONS 


BY 


p. T. Dewitt talmjige, d,d. 


Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Price $1.00. 


The latest of Dr. Talmage’s sermons have not yet been pre- 
sented in book form. They have appeared weekly in The New 
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Published for the First Time in Book Form, 

THE PRICE OF WHICH IS WITHIN THE REACH OP ALL. 



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JUST ISSUED. 


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JULIET CORSON’S 

NEW FAMILY COOK BOOK. 

BY MISS JUIilET CORSON, 

Author of “Meals for the Million,” etc., etc. 
SWPKRINTENDENT OP THE NeW YoRK SCHOOL OF CoOKERY. 


FBICE: HANBSOHELV BOUND IN CLOTH, $1.00. 

A COMPLETE COOK BOOK 

for Family Use in City and Country. 

CONTAINING 

.\mCTICAL RECIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
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',y:'he Best and Most Economical Methods of Cooking- Meats, Fish, 
Vegetables, Sauces, Salads, Puddings and Pies. 

How to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-up Dishes, 
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How to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan- 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets. 


Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipes 
\,&Ye been carefully tested in the New York School of Cookery. If her direc- 
tions are carefully followed there will be no failures and no reason for com- 
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Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book 

L; sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price: 
iliandsomely bound in cloth, $1.00. Address 

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price: 35 CEIXTS. 

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IT CONTAINS FULL DIRECTIONS FOR ALL THE 

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ALL THE LITTLE AFFECTIONS OF THE 

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Are Hade the Subjects of Precise and Excellent Becipes. 

ladies Are Instructed How to Reduce Their Weight 

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HOTHHSra HECESSARY- TO 

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AND 

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With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations hy John Tenniel. 

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No. 1. THE FUNNY FELLOW’S DIALOGUES. 

No, 2. THE CLEMENCE AND DONKEY DIALOGUES. 
No. 3. MRS. SMITH S BOARDERS’ DIALOGUES. 
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10 The Brigands of New York 10c 

11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist 10c 

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14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis Detective 10c 

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17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective 10c 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York 10c 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective 10c 

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4 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow.. . 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

> 1934 Mrs. Yereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton.. 10 

in Kilmenv 10 


TBh SSASIl)^ LlBltAllT. — Ordinc/ry BdiUon, 

«UM»- I ■ ■ ^ ' ■ II ,4j 

63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane lO 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) lO 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena, 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance > 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch , . 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1083 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON^S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon ; 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange - 10 

295 Lost for Love * 20 

822 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

469 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

^69 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, — Or dinar y Edition, 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner , 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh , 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 J ust as I Am ; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

. 1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 


CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

\ 


3 Jane Eyre (in small •type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor. 10 


TBE 8EA811)S! Lt^UAUT. — Ordina/ry Edition. 

r' ■ ■ . ■ 

829 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

j098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY BAND ALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga * 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell ‘ 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story.’. 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine ; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

25'J No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

483 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


TMM SSASTDE LtSBARY.—Ordinm-y mUm. 

■ — ■' ■ ' .. . . . — I 

651 The Yellow Mask lUi 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

t554 Poor Miss Pinch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

096 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 ‘‘I Ssy No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing ‘ 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1669 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

, the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times ^ 10 

r- 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABY. — Ordinary Edition, 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist. 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes. 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend. 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage.*. 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices. 10 

375 Mugby Junction. 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground. 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz. 20 

639 Sketches of Young Conples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne.. 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


6 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABT.-^ Ordinary Edition, 


981 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love 10 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women. 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms 20 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress of Arne 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupdd’s Net 10 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 

155 The Count of M.oniQ-Qnsio {Complete in One Volume) 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

ift'7 Ttie Queen's Necklace 20 


TEB SEASIDE LIBBABY EdiMim, 


173 ^rhe ChG^ralier de Maison Kouge. . . 3@ 

184 The Countess de Chamy ^ . .. 30 

188 N anon 10 

193 Joseph Balsamo; or. Memoirs of a Physician 30 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catherine Blum c 10 

323 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (small type), 10 
9i)7 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large type).,.., 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

276 The Page of the Duke of Savoy.. 10 

378 Six Years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul. 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio * 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 26 

622 An dree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (1st Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

364 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series).. 20 

688 Chicot, th e Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of ‘‘The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. I 20 

1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and concljusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris ” Vol. III. 20, 



SOAP IMPROVES THE COM- 
PLEXION, IS UNRIVALED AS A PURE DE- 
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PfodiEes 
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eMlful Hands 


THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price ‘^5 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $2r50 per Year. 


A HANDSOME chromo will be given free to every yearly subscriber to the 
New York Monthly Fashion Bazar whose name will be on our books when 
the Christmas number is issued. Persons desirous of availing themselves of 
this elegant present will please forward their subscription as soon as possible. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress, 
which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted to 
fashions for children of all ages. Its plates and descriptions will assist every 
lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and are 
always practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make her owm 
dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are carefully cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are use- 
ful in altering old as well as in making new^ clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the maga- 
zine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns 
given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home informa- 
tion, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cooking 
have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay. “The Duchess,” 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E, Bryan, 
author of “ Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 

We employ no canvassers to solicit subscriptions for The New York Fash- 
ion Bazar. All persons representing themselves as such are swindlers. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price S2.50 per year. Address 

GEOEGE MUNEO, Publisher, 

17 to 27 Vaiidewnter Street, N. Y. 


P. O, Rox 3751. 





Munro’s Publications. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

POCKET EDITION. 


MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS. 


Se- 


35 Lady iudley’s 

cret 20 

60 Phantom Fortune. . 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag: 10 
158 The Golden Calf.... 20 

204 Vixen 20 

•ill The Octoroon 10 

234 Dnrl)nrii;or, Splen- 
did llisery 20 

268 An Ishinneiiie 20 

315 The illistletoe 
Kongh. Edited by 
liihs Krnddon.... 20 
434Wyllard’8 Weird.. 20 
478 Diavola; or, No. 
body’s Daughter. 

Part I 

478 Diavola; or. No- 
body’s Daughter. 

Part II 

480 3Inrried In Haste. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. 

Edited by Hiss M. 

E. Itraddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s 

Daughter 20 

4S9 Rupert Godwin.... 20 
495 Mount Royal 20 


2C 

2C 

2e 


486 Only a Woman. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Rraddon 2( 

497 The Lady’s Mile... 2( 

498 Only a Clod 2t 

499 The Cloven Foot. . . 2C 

511 A Strange World. . 2t 
515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 2C 
524 Strangers and PiU 

griins 

529 The Doctor’s W4fe. 

512 Fenton’s Quest.... 
544 Cut by the Counly; 

or, Grace Darnel . 

548 The Fatal Msirrlage, 

and The Shadow 
in the Corner. .. . 

549 Dudley Cnrleon; or. 

The Brother’s Se- 
cret, and George 
Cnnlfleld’s Jour- 

ney 

552 Hostages toFortnne 20 

558 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inher- 
itance. (Seqnel to 
“Birds of Prey.”) 20 

557 To the Bitter End. 20 

559 Taken at tlie Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A 
... 20 


Living Lie 

Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. -Cddress 

OEIIBOE MUIVRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3761. 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. V, 


THE CELEBRATED 


etMlID, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER CO., Manufacturers, No, 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


FROM THE 
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VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard witli nil Plivsicians who treat 
nervous or meiitn.l disorders. It bnilds np 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuraliria and sick headache. It jn’omotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exlianst- 
iou : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


‘‘ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I liave ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really nrg-e yon to put it to the test.” — 

Miss Emily Faithful 

F. CROSBY C0„ 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


nm PRIZE 

blPLOMA. 

ent^nuiai Exnibi- 
1876: IVfontreal, 
[AikI 4882. 

The enviable po- 
sitiojdf^fSohmer & 
Co, hold among 
Americ^.n Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are usee 
in Conservato 
ries. Schools anc 
Seminaries, on ac i 
count of their su 
perior tone anc 
unequaled dura 
bility. 

The SOHMEP 
Piano is a specia 
favorite with the 
leading musician! 
and critics. 








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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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